A Line in the Sand
by Garrowan
Summary: The Forces of Garrowa have served their Astartes masters, and the Emperor, for Millenia. But now a danger forms that may end the whole Galaxy itself. The Garrowan 5th Heavy Infantry stand ready to fight, and gives their lives, in the name of the Imperium!
1. Prologue

Garrowa, a highly mountainous world in Ultima Segmentum, is the home of the Angels of the Black Blade Chapter of Adeptus Astartes.

Since the second founding, when they were created from the hallowed Blood Angels, the Angels of the Black Blade have lived on Garrowa, adopting it as their homeworld and recruiting ground. The hardy hillfolk there proved a good source of recruits.

With the Angels came a new age for Garrowa, with cities and fortresses being built. Over the millennia, a PDF was formed to protect the world whenever the Angels were fighting for the Emperor. This evolved into almost 80 regiments of armour and infantry, half of which would come to from the Garrowan Infantry, regiments of Guardsmen who followed the Angels into battle. Trained by the Neophytes of the 10th Company, and equipped by chapter Artificers, these units could be compared with the vaunted Storm Troopers of the Schola Progenium.

This would come to cause problems with the Ecclesiarchy and Munitorum, but the forces of Garrowa have never shown anything but loyalty to this day, staving off their ill intentions. Fighting with their Lords, or under their own command as part of the great Imperial Crusades, the forces of the Mountain world have earned enemies and friends alike.

Many regiments have become famous within the circles of the Imperial Guard as tough and loyal soldiers. They may not have the stealth skills of the Tanith, the Jungle warfare knowledge of the Catachans or the numbers of the Death Korp of Krieg, but the forces of Garrowa have steely determination and courage like no others as they fight for their Astartes Lords. They are solid fighters who will stand to the last.

This tale takes up the story of one regiment, the 'Fighting' 5th Heavy Infantry, and one of their toughest battles since winning their laurels on Icthia….

**Prologue**

Thirteen Hundred Years Earlier…

Dark orbs opened in foreboding eye sockets. They were etched with pain and distress. The pale, almost perfect skin around the eyes was taught with strain as consciousness returned.

The figure lay before a wraithbone throne, etched runes and spirit stones arrayed around it in concentric patterns. It was obvious who this figure was.

_Farseer_!

The figure slowly rose to its knees, and its form became apparent. Wrapped in timeless Rune armour, the Farseer was still obviously a male of the Eldar species. Unsteadily, he came to his feet, and staggered to his throne. Long, supple fingers grasped the armrests tightly for support. The Farseer's chest heaved with the effort.

The runes around his feet pulsed weakly; some still glowed with heat, others were cool to the touch now. Around him, Spirit Stones rattled in their attempts to ascertain his state of welfare.

The Farseer was Maechu, of Ulthŵe, second only to Eldrad Ulthran in wisdom and knowledge.

Maechu wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he struggle to regain control of his emotions. His head was spinning, his humours put badly out of place by his experiences.

For Maechu had wandered the skeins of the future, trying to discern something of the fate of his people. He saw the rise and fall of empires. He had seen the Doom of the universe.

Everywhere, life would be destroyed or reduced to mindless husks. The Mon-keigh of the Imperium would be but chaff before the fate to come, She-that-thirsts and its kin would have no real-space followers to give them power. All would perish, all would fall, and the numbers of the Children of Asuran would number in the _hundreds_.

Maechu had seen the doom of the universe.

Legions would awake, planets and stars would die. The Harvest would come again, the soulforges fired up and nothing would stop it this time. _The Outsider would come!_ The others were awake, or in the process of awakening, but if he joined them, then it was the end of all things.

But the future was not immutable.

He had seen hope.

And it lay with a mon-keigh! Maechu's hand clenched tighter to the throne, a brief swelling of anger overtaking him. How it should come to this! That the future of his species, and the fate of the Universe, would come to the actions of one small, insignificant being. And one who was not even yet alive! His birth was many centuries into the future.

Maechu knew that he had to keep this human safe, even before his existence came to be.

For this mon-keigh held the safety of the Universe itself in his hand, and he must be allowed to live out his life.

The Farseer had seen the Doom of the Universe.

But he had seen Hope.


	2. Chapter 1

Colonel Daine Macara buckled his sabre around the waist of his dress jacket. He smoothed down the grey fabric, and carefully removed a thread form the medals on his breast. The colonel carefully adjusted the golden-thread lanyard that hung from his left lapel, before making sure his crimson facings were aligned perfectly, the silver Aquila pins at his throat symmetrical.

Finally, he pulled on his dress peaked cap, so the brim covered his eyes, forcing him to tilt his chin to be able to see. It gave him the appearance that he was looking down his nose, which was perfect; it was meant to do that. Looking at his figure in the mirror, he grimaced. His chiselled jaw and greying hair gave him the look of a man in his late fifties; Macara was forty. And he couldn't stand Number One dress uniform.

"Looking very suave, sir," Corporal Kallum said jovially.

"Shut up," Macara replied.

"I'm just saying, so I am, sir, you look grand. A lady killer and Ork slayer if ever there was one!"

Macara took a swipe for the corporal, who nimbly jumped out the way, just avoiding the blow. Macara raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "As and NCO, you're meant to let me hit you."

"Oh yes sir, of course sir," Kallum replied, grinning. He had been his colonel's adjutant since his colonel was a captain, so he knew him well enough to be flippant. Not too flippant, though.

"Well, you can open the door for me, corporal."

"Certainly, sir," Kallum bowed slightly, still grinning. The corporal turned the door handle and opened the plain panel. Macara marched out briskly, closely followed by Kallum. The Corporal placed his own dark blue beret on his head. It looked incongruous when compared to his dress uniform, no man of his regiment would be found without theirs.

They quickly went along to a set of lifts, and waited for one to arrive on their floor. The two Guardsmen stepped inside, and Kallum pressed the speaker button.

"Sixth level, Great hall," the lift beeped a confirmation then set off.

"I can't be bothered with this nonsense," Macara said gloomily. He fidgeted with his medals, moving them this way and that, never satisfied with the way he had them. Eventually, Kallum batted the colonel's hands away and straightened the medals for him.

"I hate these things." Macara said, petulantly pushing the bigger corporal away.

* * *

"Is it done?" the shadowy figure asked.

"Yes, my Lord. The General is in my pocket, and I have confirmation of the device's existence," a second figure, equally shrouded in the gloom, replied.

The chamber they were in was large, and several hooded adepts hurried this way and that, all with heads bowed, all trying to avoid the attentions of the two speakers. The first voice was seated in darkness, the second stood before him.

"Where?" the original speaker hissed. "Have you found where in the city it lies?"

"No, Lord, only that is most certainly there. I do have some leads, however."

"Good. Return there, then, my loyal soldier, and find it for me. Do whatever you must. You may use my seal if necessary, if you find that your authority is not enough."

"Of course, my lord." The second figure bowed, and then turned on its heel, cloak billowing, and strode from the hall.

With a slight glint, catching one of the few sources of light in the room, the seated figure flexed the fingers of its left hand, metal shining brightly.

* * *

The lift came to a stop, the doors drawing open. The colonel and his adjutant walked out into a long corridor, wide and low, with many doors on either side along its length. Outside each door stood a pair of troopers, standing watch.

This was the Administrative rooms in the fortress monastery of Gateway Pass. Every one of the 38 regiments in the Battlefield Support echelon of the Garrowan military had a chamber with a small army of archivists, storing and transcribing the records of every regiment since its founding. One floor down, the 40 regiments of PDF Echelon had similar chambers, and one floor up lay the hallowed records of the Angels themselves.

Macara could see some officers 150 yards along the corridor reached two great doors and then enter the Great Hall. It seemed most of the assembly was inside already. He quickened his pace.

Kallum and he passed all the troopers on Guard; Heavy Infantry, Fusiliers, Riflemen and Cavalry crew.

Kallum stopped when they walked past two men of their own regiment.

"Alrighty there, Mk'Gorl? Enjoying the mind numbing boredom of guard duty? You should get a cushy job like mine," he laughed. The private grinned.

"Corporal, if you do no shut up and follow me, Private Mk'Gorl will be getting your 'cushy' job." Macara called over his shoulder. Kallum hurried to catch up.

Macara ignored the tapestries that hung on the walls. He had seen them many times. Kallum had only seen them occasionally, so loved to gaze at them as he went along. Scenes of triumphant battle, tragic last stands and great heroes covered each. Macara smiled inwardly at the look on Kallum's face as they walked along.

As the pair approached the great doors at the end of the corridor, they came up to two towering figures, one on either side. They wore pure white robes over black fatigues. Each man had a massive two handed sword, point down, held by the handle. Now, Macara was no small man, topping six feet two inches, but these men towered over him and the taller Kallum, both in height and build.

They were Astartes of the Angels of the Black Blade, and this was their Fortress.

Even without their bulky power armour, they were huge and imposing. Macara and Kallum walked up to them and bowed.

"Colonel Macara, as requested by the Lord General," Macara saluted formally.

"This way, colonel," One of the Marines boomed. They opened the doors for him and saluted back. Macara always marvelled at this. They showed respect for his rank, even though one of them was worth him and his whole regiment to the Imperium. He nodded to them, and took a deep breath as he entered the hall.

He lost that breath at the roaring cheer that greeted him in the Great Hall. 'Great' was an understatement. It was fully two hundred metres by one hundred long. Statues and murals ran down either side. More tapestries hung on the walls, fully sixty metres in height. There was a podium in in the middle of the hall, and beyond that the benches and tables where the Angels took their meals as a Company. They lay empty, but he expected that.

The other half of the hall, the closer side, was full of officers from every Garrowan regiment in the 2nd Division. They had all returned from Cadia only a month ago, having helped fight Abaddon's 13th Black Crusade. Leading to the podium, and Honour Guard made of 40 Garrowan Lifeguards, the veterans who protected the Lord General, and 40 of his own men. Beside them were ranked 10 Cadian Kasrkin, guests of honour. Reddening at the cheeks, Macara walked towards the podium. Officers were cheering him from either side.

On the podium, the Generals of the 2nd Division, his Division, stood reading to receive him. General Bukanan, tall and wild haired, General of the Light Brigade, all regiments from the city of Lynstas, expert skirmishers. Beside him, smaller but bulkier, and well-trimmed, Brigadier General Taulich of the 2nd brigade, in which Macara served. Their commander, in turn, was the fine figure of General Mk'Fedan – well built, average height, strong jaw, he had led the 2nd Division for almost ten years.

Behind them was a throne, and a short, pale man stood beside it. He was an offworlder, Field Marshall Tern, Chief of Staff. A Cadian General, resplendent in khaki and olive green dress uniform. But it was the figure on the throne behind them who Macara loved above any other man present. Lord General Mc'Alastor, the 'Old Brute', highest ranking human on Garrowa.

Mc'Alastor was possibly the greatest of all Garrowan Commanders. Ever. He had personally led his forces in more than forty campaigns, over one two hundred battles. He had only ever lost three. Mc'Alastor has risen from trooper, and was loved by all his men. More than loved. They would follow the 'Old Brute' into the Eye of Terror if he told them they could win. Macara saluted him the moment his feet had come to a rest on the podium.

"We've been expecting you, colonel," Tern said, his voice full of breeding and indulgence. He was not a native to the Garrowan system. Rather, he was the son of a highborn noble, attend the Schola Progenium and was sent to monitor the Garrowan establishment. Just 'in case'. He was one of the few officers the men did not like.

General Mk'Fedan beamed with pride. He spoke to the assembled officers in his booming cant.

"Attention!" he bellowed. As one, the assembled officers snapped to. "It is good to be has taken the better part of a Terran year to get here, but it is something we suffer gladly for the ability see our homes, an honour many Guardsmen never experience." He paused to take breath, a small applause breaking out as he did so. The general held up his hand for silence, before continuing. "We are here to honour Colonel Daine Macara, for his actions, and the conduct of his regiment, during the 13th Black Crusade." He let the words hang for a moment. Many brave men died fighting on Cadia during that campaign.

"Colonel Macara brought his regiment, the 5th Heavy Infantry, through many tough fights. If not for him, the fall of Kasr Tyrok would have become a route. If not for the 5th, the 2nd Division would have been wiped out as they fell back to the defence lines. He saved the lives of forty thousand men that day. And so, I believe, we owe him a great thanks. If I could now introduce General Mareven?" he gestured to the Cadian officer, who waited for the clapping to stop before he spoke out loudly.

"Thank you, Warriors of Garrowa!"

Cheers erupted once again. Someone, somewhere in the Hall, was thumping the wooden armrest of a chair. It wasn't Mc'Alastor, but Macara could see no one else seated. Mareven spoke again as the noise died down.

"I have been sent by the Lord Castellan of Cadia, and granted permission by the holy Munitorum to grant this award," he looked at the assembled men. "although, I didn't think I'd get here this quickly!" he made light of the strange arrival of the Garrowan forces at their home.

"I present to Colonel Macara, of the 5th Garrowan Heavy Infantry, the Macharian Cross!" the general finished as he lifted the medal's ribbon over Macara's neck, from a wooden box held by a grim Cadian Kasrkin private.

Macara's officers cheered themselves hoarse. The crowd took up this cheer. However, inwardly Macara shuddered. Too many of his men had not returned from that fight, and he felt he had failed to bring them all home.

At Mareven's signal, Macara turned to the assembled officers and saluted.

"Now bloody well calm down!" a thickly accented voice called, in Garrowan, not Gothic. It was Mc'Alastor. The officer fell silent in an instant. "We are all delighted with Macara's award, but there is something far more pressing at hand!" he looked at the sea of faces, watching the joy fade suddenly. "I do believe it's time for a drink! The main mess has been reserved for you all, and four dozen crates of best Ferrila lie waiting to be opened! If you would all like to head for the Third level?"

The doors at the end of the hall opened, and the officers streamed out, laughing and cheering. They were, strangely, all very disciplined as they left. There was no pushing or shoving, despite the excitement and urge to get to the mess.

As they filed out, Tern spoke to Macara. "Could you wait, colonel? The Lord General wishes an impromptu officer meeting,"

"Of course, sir," Macara replied politely. Macara really wanted to join his officers, but an order was an order. The audience left, flowing through the great doors. After a few minutes, they were closed with a tight thud.

"Not wishing to ruin your night, Daine, so I'll do this quickly." Mc'Alastor sighed. "The 2nd Division is being routed to the Ramillies system. The capital city of the planet has fallen, and we need its military production to help battle in the Medusa V system." Macara nodded slowly. He knew vaguely of what was happening there.

"When do we leave, sir?"

"The day after tomorrow. Tern said tersely.

"What are our objectives?"

"You will be told in transit." Tern replied again. Mc'Alastor scowled, and Macara gave the rhuith general a hard stare.

"There is one more thing, Daine. General Taulich will not be commanding 2nd Brigade." Mk'Fedan said, slight sadness on his face.

"What? Why not, sir? We can't lose the general before going into action!" Macara was startled.

"It is confidential, colon…" Tern began.

"I am being moved up the chain of command, Daine." Taulich said in Garrowan, ignoring Tern as he cut him off. "Going to Intelligence."

"Which means the brigade needs a commander. We thought you may like to try that out?" Mk'Fedan smiled.

Macara was stunned. He had never dreamed of commanding a brigade by this point of his career. "I…I mean to say…I. thank you, sirs. I will do my best."

"I know you will, Daine," Mc'Alastor spoke up. "You can take over the duties in transit. The materials will be provided for you. Now, go on, and enjoy your party. I fully intend to myself," the Brute smiled. "I fully intend to see if those lieutenants can hold their liquor better than this old man." He smiled tapping his chest.

Yes, the Garrowans loved this man, and for good reason.

Mc'Alastor would never waste them unnecessarily, as Imperial commanders are wont to do. He used them for what they were; a finely honed tool in support of their Angels Liege-lords.

Macara saluted and made to leave.

"I always knew you'd go far, Daine. Your father would be proud." Mc'Alastor finished.

"Thank you, sir," Macara grunted slightly. He didn't particularly care what his father would have thought, and his father boots were far too large for him to try and fit into. In his opinion, Mc'Alastor had been a better father to him, despite his command of a whole world and its forces.

As Macara and Kallum, with the general staff, began to walk away, a voice boomed across the hall.

"Congratulations, colonel."

Sat on an even more ornate throne, almost at the opposite end of the hall, sat like a statue of the gods, was Chapter Master Morté.

"Good luck, and bring retribution to the enemies of the Emperor," Morté said, his words reverberating across the perfectly balanced acoustics of the Hall.

How had he not seen him when he came in? Macara thought to himself. How had he missed his Liege Lord? He didn't care, what an honour!

"Thank you, my Lord. The Emperor Protects." Macara replied, slightly stunned once more. The generals echoed his words, then together they turned and briskly left the hall. Macara's heart soared; he had only ever seen the Chapter Master from about half a kilometre away, and yet here he was being congratulated by him! He could go to his fiery death a happy man.

As the officers left through the great doors, Chapter Master Morté smiled. Ever so slightly.

* * *

The party raged on, hours later. Corporal Kallum sat with the Kasrkin troopers, the only non-officers allowed to the party. The men drank heavily, laughing loudly between mouthfuls.

Macara watched his adjutant, a smile on his face. His second in command, major Cairns, laughed at the spectacle. General Mareven was sat with Taulich, telling a rather crude joke about a Sororitas Nun and an Ork. It had the surrounding officers in fits of laughter. A group of lieutenants stood within earshot, boasting drunkenly of the enemies they would kill.

Lord General Mc'Alastor Pushed his way through the throng of subalterns, deftly avoiding being dragged into their conversation. Macara, Cairns and Mareven stood at his arrival.

"No, gentlemen, sit. Tonight is a party and I won't have you stand on ceremony." He said. He then glanced at Kallum.

"I see your aide is enjoying the company of General Mareven's Cadians?" he grinned.

"Yes, I believe he is sir." Macara smiled again. Mareven spoke up.

"Apparently, my Lord, your corporal put forward the theory that any single Garrowan could drink as much as any five others!" He laughed

"And he's proving it, too," Taulich joined in. "Good on him I say. Third stripe for old Dearg Kallum?"

"Maybe, sir," Macara laughed out loud.

"I should hope so, from one of my men!" Mc'Alastor growled, taking a full glass and passing it to Macara before holding his own high. Using a parade voiced practised over sixty years of fighting, he called.

"To the Fighting Fifth!" he roared. The other officers jeered playfully as the officers of the 5th bellowed back their age old reply.

"Long May they March on!"

Macara took a sip of the ferrila, the strong crop-spirit heating his throat on the way down. He looked appreciatively at the golden-red liquid.

Looking round, he could see the faces of many of the men he would be commanding in battle. Would he be up to the challenge?

He looked again at Kallum, who had now drunk three Cadians to oblivion, with a fourth quickly getting to the same state. Kallum looked fine, as if he were about to go on parade.

"So, colonel, when was the last time you had a Drylar's Cup?" Mc'Alastor's voice cut through his thoughts.

Macara replied wearily. "I don't think I have, sir…" He knew the Old Brute's propensity for drinking games.

"Well, colonel, that is something we shall have to remedy.


	3. Chapter 2

_*Note - The Verdani regiments, any any following reference, are the brain child of Penanme Sealurk, who has allowed me to use his ideas at his discretion._

The Assembly Fields were covered in men. The seven infantry regiments and the Fusiliers of the 2nd Division stood awaiting their turn to head into orbit, where the Cavalry were already offloading their tanks into the cavernous Transport Conveyors.

Thirty thousand Garrowan Guardsmen stood in their companies, or sat on their Chimeras, the buildings of Garrowa City towering over them, in turn being dwarfed by the mountains of Gateway Pass and the surrounding ranges.

Men in dark grey fatigues with crimson Carapace Armour stood in ranks, talking to each other in hushed tones, sergeants allowing them this one small privilege. The Heavy Infantrymen all had a bright red stripe down the centre of the crimson helmets clipped to their packs; their berets were the same colour. The Riflemen and Light infantry had dark green instead. Alone among them, the 5th had a royal blue helmet band and beret, the envy of all around them.

The landing field in the heart of the city buzzed with conversation and the noise of vehicles. Comrades from different battalions rekindled friendships and rivalries alike. Heavy Infantry jeered the light Riflemen. Fusiliers sat atop their Chimera IFVs, throwing insults down at the Heavy foot sloggers. Officers walked the ranks, smiling with familiarity at men whom they recognised from past actions.

"It's a grand sight, so it is sir." Kallum said in a slightly louder voice than he had to.

"Shut up." Macara groaned back.

"It's fair weather. The men are in good temper and we're off to show the enemies of mankind not to mess with us."

"Shut up."

"Now, sir, that's not very nice. I was simply pointing out the weather…"

"Kallum, you know fine well I still have a hangover that would kill a grox. You know fine well that Lord Mc'Alastor managed to best me, the major and General Bukanan without even belching. And you know fine well you're speaking far louder than you have to! Another word from you and you will also know the feel of my boot against your rear passage!" the colonel took a breath whilst rubbing his temples. "And shut the hell up!" that last part was directed at the whole of 4 Company standing to his left. The men chuckled at the outburst.

"Well, sir, you did stay up until 06.45 yesterday morning drinking. I'm surprised you're still feeling it now," Kallum grinned.

"I don't know how you hold it in, corporal," Macara sighed over dramatically. "I was still drunk until about 1800 hours…you seemed sober the whole time. Isn't your head even the least bit heavy?"

"Not at all, sir. You see, those of us who still actually come from the hills are far more resilient than the city types," the adjutant grinned evilly. Kallum was immensely proud of the fact he was raised in the mountains and not one of the cities that had sprung up in the deep valleys of the planet.

"I was born in the hills," Macara said weakly.

"Well, there's always an exception to the rules, I suppose. You may be happier to know, I won one hundred and ninety two credits from those Cadians." Kallum managed to say, just avoiding Macara's boot and the less-than-precisely aimed kick.

"What did I tell you about that?" Macara muttered, before walking to the front of the ranked up soldiers of his regiment. Using his well-practised vocalisation skills, he projected his voice.

"Men of the Fifth, I felt, as your commanding officer, that there is something I should tell you," he paused, not only to make sure all his men were paying attention, but because each word was like an Ork punching him in the head. "I feel, that when we reach Ramillies, as I will be taking over command of the brigade, that I am going to take it easy for a change!" again, he paused, this time as his men laughed. "You lot can do all that grisly fighting business. I am going to find myself a nice quiet room and read a book."

"You need a woman!" a voice shouted from the crowd.

"Doesn't your mother count, corporal Roscoe?" the colonel laughed along with 2 Company. Roscoe was the regimental joker, and the men liked to see him played at his own game.

"The Light brigade will mount up as soon as the Fusiliers leave. They are Riflemen, after all, so take up less space." More laughter and comments on the usefulness of the Light troops.

"I cannot possibly guess what you have to laugh about, because we will be sharing space with the 9th and the 11th. And you know what they say about the 11th…"

The men groaned. Macara nodded to them.

"Relax, but be ready to mount up when you're told. I'm going to speak to the rest of the brigade. I'll see you in orbit."

As he walked, Macara smiled. He was sure he would come to love brigade command.

* * *

Macara felt as if he would come to hate brigade command. Inspirational speeches were easy. Saluting at the right times was easy. Hell, even frontline action was easy! But this! After three weeks in transit, Macara felt like screaming. There was so much paper work that needed doing! Troopers pay, mess arrangements, ammunition and fuel distribution, disciplinary notifications, accommodating complaints. It was all the logistics that followed a regiment, only five fold. At least at divisional level there were colonels and majors to help with this. He had his 5th, the 8th Fusiliers, 9th and 11th heavy infantry and the 2nd Cavalry to worry about now. It was a lot of men and numbers.

Macara was meant to have a staff-major, but so far it was he and Kallum, with some help from the occasional commanding officer.

He could order some of the subalterns of the 5th to help him, but he didn't want anyone else involved. It wasn't that he didn't trust them, but he didn't want to inflict it on anyone els….

"Midshipman," he spoke through the comm in his desk to the seconded naval officer sitting in the office outside his quarters. "Could you have Commissar Klousour sent in, please? I need his assistance on some senior regimental work."

"Of course, sir,"

Macara grinned evilly, a plan forming. Klousour was his regiments' Commissar. Macara had never liked the work of commissars, all that fear and intimidation. And they were all too trigger happy, in his experience. The colonel did not mind men falling back from the enemy, as long as they used it as a chance to regroup and try again. Commissars never gave that second chance. Throne, but he hated the Commissariat.

He pushed his chair back, and pulled a bottle of ferrila from his desk. He uncorked it and poured two fingers into a small glass. Taking a large gulp, h thought on the circumstances that had led to the posting of commissars to regiments of his division.

* * *

It had been on Cadia. No, it had been before that, actually. The Munitorum and the Ecclesiarchy never liked the idea of the Angels having its own force of Guardsmen. Over the centuries they had taken action to exert control on the Garrowan forces. Nine years earlier, they had posted five senior Commissars to the Garrowan establishment, one for each divisional commander and one for Mc'Alastor himself. Another 5 had been posted to the 1st Brigade, where some of the oldest, and most fiercely Angels loyal regiments were. However, they had had no reason to request more discipline officers as the Garrowans prove well behaved and loyal.

The situation leading to a general deployment of commissars happened on Cadia. During a fight for the main cities, Macara's brigade and a few other battalions had been supporting an Angels strike force. They had been serving in an area where a Cadian general was commanding the regular guard forces. The general, a certain general Faulin, had pulled rank to try and order the Garrowan forces to support his own withdrawing troops during an Angels offensive.

The leader of the Angels taskforce, Captain Deklan of the Second Company, had refused as his men were fighting and dying to retake ground the Cadians were abandoning. When Faulin had suggested an Astartes could not take command of Imperial Guard forces, Deklan reminded him the Garrowan infantry was founded specifically to support the Angels. Faulin continued to try and argue the point, until High Command had sorted the problem out.

Faulin, however, a senior member of the illustrious Cadian high Command, felt his authority diminished, and when the 2nd Terurn Guard became encircled, he wasted valuable time before committing troops to aid them, stating "If they aren't Guardsmen, then let their beloved Astartes save them,"

The 2nd Terurn Guard took almost 75% casualties. Faulin, being such an influential officer, with friends in higher places, avoided all blame. He did use his position, however, to accuse the Garrowans of cowardice, insubordination and borderline heresy, seeing as they answered to the Angels. The Ecclesiarchy had already implemented steps on Garrowa itself, and now the Munitorum used it as a chance to posted commissars to nearly all Garrowan regiments. Despite fierce protests from Morté himself, the commissars came. Worse, there was no apology for the casualties taken by Garrowan forces defending Cadia. In the three months before the Garrowans headed home, the commissars had made their presences felt.

Only good men, like general Mareven, and Ursarkar Creed, made an sort of apology for the situation that came about.

* * *

The door comms beeped.

"Come," Macara said a little too eagerly. A medium height man walked in in the ubiquitous black trousers and boots, but in his undershirt and braces. It was obvious the Commissar was off duty. He had sandy hair and a long scar down his left cheek.

"I see you feel it appropriate to let the men see you in a state of undress when requested by your commanding officer?"

"Sorry sir. I felt it better that I arrive promptly." Klousour but back coldly.

Macara chuckled darkly. "I am teasing, commissar. I called you here because of something you said to me a couple of months ago, when you were first posted here."

"And that was…?"

"That you wished integrate yourself with the regiment, to better help it operate." Macara said impishly, a smirk behind his eyes.

"I did, sir." Klousour replied suspiciously. He had only said that to placate the tough Garrowan officer upon his posting.

Macara stood and offered the glass of ferrila to Klousour, who sat where the colonel indicated.

"Well, Commissar, as you wish to become a better part of our regiment, I'm sure you won't mind helping me with some paperwork, political officer Klousour" Macara smiled, edging towards the door.

Klousour looked at the paper work and realised just what it was. "Sir, I don't believe this is one of my duti…" he stopped short. The door was open and he could hear Macara laughing as he ran down the service way.

* * *

_There was nothing on the planet for miles and miles. Just dust, and wind, and a dead black sky._

_Macara looked around in horror. Dust and wind, dust and wind._

_Macara ran for what seemed an eon, trying to find something, some landmark. There was none. Macara tried to shout, but no sound emanated from his throat._

_He walked on and on, leaving tracks in the dust that faded away in instants._

_As he walked, he saw a green glow on the horizon, and he trudged onward towards it._

_He ate up the miles, and he felt like he had walked for an eternity, and yet for no time at all. He tried to call out again, but nothing issued forth._

_He came upon the green glow and stopped, terror gripping tight._

_There was a large black pyramid, surmounted by a glowing green crystal. Green veins of energy flowed down the sides of this monument. Walking into its gaping entrance, he could just see emaciated figures, shackled to one another, wandering in. Nothing came from the edifice._

_The ground at his feet moved slightly, and a metallic, skeletal arm shot form the dust and grabbed his leg and…_

…Jerked him awake. The eddies and translucent eddies of the warp swirled around the ship. Macara sat in the ornate viewing lounge. All ships had one, but weren't often used on military ships. There was also the fear that looking at the warp itself could drive men mad…

The room was wide and circular, with a glass dome. Fifteen seats sat in the chamber, in rows of five. No seat touched another, and at the moment, no other was filled. Macara was on his own.

He looked around in a bit of a daze, the…the dream playing on his mind. What was it? He wondered. A nightmare, to be sure.

Macara started at the ripples of the warp, and put the vision down to the effects of the view on his tired mind.

The colonel usually loved to sit in these chambers, but Fate always seemed to conspire against him. Officers come looking for him, jobs that needed doing, fights to be broken up. Once there was even an attack by Ork pirates…

Today was no different. Lieutenant-Colonel Mk'Greyger of the 4th Rifles walked over from the hatch entrance.

"What are you doing on this ship? I thought the Rifles were on the other troop conveyor?"

"There's an officers meeting for the division. Mk'Fedan called it. Didn't you hear?" Mk'Greyger replied with a bemused smile.

"Umm….no. I've been buried in paperwork, and then I came here and…eh…I fell asleep."

"Tough work?" the Rifleman asked.

Macara sighed "No, but lots of it."

"Mind if I join you, sir?" the other man pointed at a seat.

"Certainly colonel. If you can find a free seat," Macara joked, looking at the fourteen empty ones beside him.

"I didn't know you liked it up here, sir." Mk'Greyger changed the subject.

"Likewise. But we haven't spoken much when we served together. Usually in the heat of battle, polite conversation goes out the window."

"That's true enough, sir" Mk'Greyger laughed. The man was lean, and had an irrepressible manner. He obviously made friends easily, and Macara knew the 4th was fiercely loyal to their colonel.

"We're off duty. No 'sirs'. Besides, we're spitting distance apart in rank, and we're both officers. That okay Merrit?"

"Okay then, Daine. So, what draws you to the warp? The lure of the Archenemy? The whisperings of the ruinous powers? Or just the pretty colours?"

The two men laughed.

"You better keep that to yourself, Merrit. Klousour is on a rampage again, and would no doubt shoot you for it. I tried to get him to finish the brigade's paperwork, but I don't know where he is now."

"We got ourselves a pretty little political officer," Mk'Greyger said darkly. "A woman who seems not only to hate men in general, but Garrowans in particular."

"You have a commissar now?" Macara asked, surprised.

"Two. You didn't know?"

"No. I thought the Rifles were pretty much perfectly disciplined?"

"Didn't stop them assigning to us anyway." Mk'Greyger's voice was vehement. "The 8th Fusiliers got one as well."

"Yes, I heard about him. It's disgraceful, if you ask me. Loyal men of the Imperium! And they gave me three of the bloody men." Macara snarled.

"Three? Where are the other two? I only saw one at the muster."

"One has stayed in Gateway Pass with our latest draft, bringing them up to battle standards. The other has come down with a rather convenient case of food poisoning…" Macara's smile was cruel.

Mk'Greyger laughed. "You didn't, did you?"

"No, I most certainly did not. Corporal Roscoe, however, has been thoroughly disciplined for his actions." Macara smiled more genuinely this time.

"I'll bet he was…" Mk'Greyger started, when his comms went off.

"_Sorry to bother you, sir. Commissar Gourte is looking for colonel Macara, but the colonel left his vox in his quarters_." The Rifle officers adjutant asked.

The two men burst into fits of immature giggles. The only reason the senior commissar would be looking for Macara would be because Klousour was doing his paperwork. Composing himself, Mk'Greyger asked.

"Where is the Commissar now?"

"_In the colonel's office, with Klousour."_

"Well, I saw him in the viewing lounge as I went past," Mk'Greyger said, barely keeping his face straight. He shut down the comm.

"Why did you do that?" Macara asked, a little crestfallen.

"Well, Daine, it'll take them a good fifteen minutes to get here. By which time, I suspect, you will have moved on. I only saw you here briefly. Bugger off." The rifleman grinned slyly.

"You rifles really are tricky bastards, aren't you? Cheers mate. I must go now, but I bid you good luck." Macara gave a mock salute before adopting a suitably heroic pose, before dashing off like a Scholam student in trouble.

Mk'Greyger sat waiting for the commissars, laughing out loud at the very idea of the aging Gourte chasing Macara around the ship.

* * *

"News is, gentlemen, that Ramillies has now fallen." Mk'Fedan started the meeting with less than optimistic news. Almost at once six hundred regimental officers started to talk, some uttering disbelief, others anger. Mk'Fedan looked at his staff officers beside him, before bellowing out.

"Silence! You're acting like a bunch of Slambadden conscripts!" That was enough to silence the room. "now, the operation has become a liberation. As we all know, Ramillies is vitally important to the sector; its war produce helps defend this area of space from many threats, and it overlooks one of the sling-shot warp gates in the Segmentum. Emperor knows there are few enough of those we can actually use." The general let his words sink in. "So we need this world back! We need its lasguns, its Russes and its location."

There was a general murmur of ascent. Mk'Fedan raised an eyebrow, ensuring the murmur stayed just that until he was finished talking.

"Sir, from what you are saying, you want us to fight and die to keep the factorums going?" a voice said despite the warning glance from the general.

"Captain, shut your damned mouth," Macara hissed. Captain Dyort, of his own 3rd Company, was a whiner. He complained about anything he could; Macara had no idea how he had risen to lieutenant, never mind Company captain. He complained about assignments, quarters, food, everything. And worse. Macara had never wanted to get rid of any officers, trying to give them all a chance to show their quality. But Dyort had caused the deaths of ninety men on Cadia. It was only Taulich's insistence that Dyort may one day prove useful that had stopped Macara booting him out himself. Dyort was trying to redeem himself, at least. Macara was watching him for one sign that his repentance was a shame, and he was gone.

"Because, Captain, we are servants of the Emperor, and we do what we are ordered to do. We could waste our entire force here as long as it kept the fabricator plants out of the enemy's hands." Mk'Fedan said with vigour. There was another murmur of agreement.

"Colonel Brennel," Mk'Fedan gestured to one of his tactical officers, who stood with a data slate. The assembled officers took out their own, read to take notes. A holographic map of the city appeared before them. It had started as a ubiquitous hive tower, but a city had grown out from it, the Hive towers becoming the central government area, the habs spreading for miles around, and across the wide Tenba river. There was no curtain wall or defensive positions here, as the factories were constantly being made larger, or new ones being built. It had often been rumoured that Ramillies would become a Mechanicum world, for it was close to that stage in its development.

"We will be going into action almost straight upon arrival, in the capital Tenba City. Our forces on the ground are under near constant attack, and are having to hold certain areas of the city near the main Hive spires. There are maybe one hundred thousand men of the Ramillien PDF left alive. They are being supported by eighteen regiments of Dramarian Grenadiers," quills scratched on data slates as officers took notes. Macara smiled slightly – the Dramarians had served with Garrowan forces in the S'karr campaign against the Tau. They were tough, professional soldier with good staying power. Brennel continued.

"They hold the hive spires and the main factotums. They have lost the main bridges across the river, and the main space port, so we can't land the majority of our ground forces in one fell swoop. Also, there is a massed force of enemy cultists attacking the PDF barracks and lower Hive towers, near the main spine. That means there will be a drop assault, spearhead by Elysian troops, followed by a more massed troop drop from other regiments. There are six regiments of Elysians who will be making this drop, but they are dropping two right on the barracks, as the PDF can't last much longer. So they have asked for some support from our forces to capture the necessary objective, needed to land our main forces."

"Which are?" Colonel Danler, of the Lynstas light, raised a hand.

"The space port, and these three bridges here," Brennel pointed at the map. "And the Cathedral district here. The cathedral is right beside a major warehouse, full to the rafters with ammunition and supplies. We need that material. Garrowan units are tasked with taking the warehouse, the nearest bridge, here, and the central span" Brennel gestured at the southernmost span. "Elysian units will take the other crossing with two battalions, and their final two will take the space port. When the landing fields are taken, we can begin to land the Fusiliers and Cavalry, and of course the Heavies."

There was a slight uproar as the officers of those regiments being left out realised they were to stay in orbit during the assault.

"Quieten down!" General Bukanan roared. "Let the colonel finish!"

Miket Bukanan was tall and wild haired, with a huge beard. His arms were knots of muscle, and he looked like every mythical Garrowan warrior ever described. He didn't speak much, but when he didn't, men listened.

"There has been debate over who shall make the drop. The Light Brigade, under General Bukanan, will make this drop. They will take the lower bridge and the Cathedral. They will have to hold out for up to two days without support, but general Mk'Fedan is confident they can."

"Sir, the Rifles are good troops, but can they take and hold that bridge over a couple of days? You need more heavily armed troops there!" Colonel Frayver, of the 9th Heavies, spoke up.

"He's right, sir. That central bridge is lookin very lonely. I suggest a Heavy battalion moves there. The 5th, namely," Macara suggested. More clamour met this.

"We don't have space for a heavy unit with all the light battalions," Bukanan muttered.

"I know sir. So drop one of the lights from the assault and send us in," Macara replied.

Mk'Fedan stood and spoke again. "Daine has a good point. I suggest the 9th takes the central span, as they will be furthest from support, but they can handle themselves," Frayzar looked triumphant. Macara was a little disappoint, but at least his brigade would be involved in the fighting. "Good to see that's sorted. And no, Mike, no arguments from you please." Mk'Fedan finished. Bukanan just scowled below his beard.

"What other forces are in support?" a lieutenant asked.

Brennel nodded. "Good question. Well, there are several Cadians regiments here, sent to rearm after the battle for the Gate. They will be arriving in a couple of weeks, just in time for the fighting, it seems. Twenty two regiments in all, including our friends in the 23rd," there was some cheers; the 23rd had fought at Kasr Tyrok with the Garrowans and formed solid friendships. "and the 227th." That was met with silence. The 227th was Faulin's own unit, who had cost the Terurn guard so dearly.

"Damn their eyes," Major Cairns muttered. Many men nearby echoed the sentiment.

"Seven regiments of Thoran Bravers will be arriving to engage the enemy with us." There was no cheer, only some mutterings. The Thorans had only served with the Garrowans in one campaign, but most of these officers knew nothing about them. "and finally, two regiments of Verdani Rangers are waiting in orbit."

"Don't those jungle boys ride Lizards? What are they doing _here_?" a Fusilier major asked.

"They go where the Munitorum sends them no matter how little sense it makes. And only some of them ride lizards. They use Chimeras too," Mk'Fedan said with a mock sigh.

"What are the enemy forces like?" Macara asked the really important question. Mk'Fedan answered this one personally.

"Tac Logic suggests between five hundred thousand, to one million cultists. Poorly trained, poorly equipped, but numerous none the less. Also, most of their forces are in the Western side of the city, barring those assaulting the PDF barracks. But I wouldn't trust Intelligence, as it was given to us by the Ramilliens. We don't know how accurate it is."

Mk'Fedan's expression darkened. "There have also been reports of small units of well trained, possibly traitor, soldiers leading the cultists efforts."

"Reports? That means there are either no traitor guard, or a _division_ of them," Bukanan spat his derision.

"I know, Miket, I know. But we will do what we Garrowans do best, and fight with everything we have got. One last thing gentlemen. Our esteemed commander on this little jaunt. It's General Faulin."

An angry hiss ran through the assembled Garrowans, and no amount of hard stares from the commissars gathered at the back of the room could suppress it.

"Bastard."

"Damn _his _eyes."

"Right, gentlemen, to your regiments. We drop 0800 tomorrow," that surprised many of them; the warp transit was a week early.

As officers rose and started to leave, Cairns leaned towards Macara. "That bastard, eh? This is going to be one major feck-up, and we both know it."

"Oh throne," Macara sighed. "So much for an easy op."


	4. Chapter 3

Captain Mc'Teger held on to the straps that held him to his street, preventing him meeting the ceiling of the dropship.

The drop ship itself was bouncing and tossing with the turbulence of atmospheric re-entry. He felt the urge to vomit. Very soon. The captain looked round the drop ship. Somehow, the Navy had managed to cram the three hundred thirty men of his company into only four drop ships. Apparently, the comfort of the men was secondary to how many could be dropped at once, in as few vehicles as possible. It was like some archaic vid-game for the Navy Ratings…

Mc'Teger's company was the Light, of the 9th Heavy Infantry. The elite of the battalion. All Heavy Infantry battalions had two companies who were distinct from the Centre Companies; the Grenadier and Light Infantry Companies. The Grenadiers were the biggest, strongest men of a regiment, and were the best stormers and close-quarter men. The Light infantry, who had less armour and marginally less equipment, were the smartest men. They were the recon element, the skirmishers, and they were trusted with using their own initiative in bad situation. They could form on the battle line like all the other Companies, and fire their volleys and perform a bayonet charge, but they were also useful in other ways.

Only, he didn't feel elite. He felt like a child on his first flight. Mc'Teger had made many drops, but no drops straight into combat at high velocity re-entry.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll soon be down." Sergeant Nerar chuckled from his left hand side.

"I can't wait. I'd rather take Abaddon himself." Mc'Teger groaned. The men around him laughed. That was all good, but would they be laughing when his morning rations ended up on their fatigues?

"Two minutes!" a voice broadcast into their ears via micro-bead links in their helmets." Oh great, two minutes! That would pass like two hours! Oh hell. Just keep those freeze-dried protein blocks IN your gut. Two minutes. That's all.

Thud.

His harness released. Men stood and dashed to the main hatch, already lowering itself.

"We're on the ground?" Mc'Teger couldn't stop himself asking. Nerar replied, laughing.

"Yes. Anything wrong with that, sir?"

"No, it's just…I thought the comm said two minutes, but next thing we were on the ground."

Nerar looked a little sympathetic. "I hate to tell you sir, but you blacked out for a moment there."

"I didn't, did I?" the captain asked, mortified.

"No one noticed, sir. Had them checking their hellguns."

"Thanks," Mc'Teger muttered genuinely. Before him, the hatch had fully opened, allowing pale light and the noise of dozens of dropships. Mc'Teger thumbed on his power sabre, checked the mag of his hell pistol before bellowing to his troopers.

"Men of Garrowa! Forward!"

His eighty-odd men charged forward, streaming towards the nearby shadows of the towering road bridge. They moved from cover to cover, squads detailed to cover side-roads and building entrances as they passed them.

Another eighty or so troopers appeared from the right flank, all bearing the marks of Light Infantrymen. More Light Garrowans could be seen smashing windows overlooking the bridge, support weapons being set up within them.

"Lieutenant Bylar, where is Lieutenant Drang with the rest of the Company?" Mc'Teger asked one of the junior officers who ran over to him.

"Their transport was hit, sir. No survivors," the lieutenant replied. Oh hell, a quarter of my men! The captain's thought raced.

"How many were hit?"

"3 Company lost twenty men to a rocket strike. It managed to land, but exploded as most of the men got out. The rest of the regiment seem to have made it relatively intact." The young officer said. Even under his helmet, the Lieutenant looked visibly pale.

"It is okay, Bylar." McTeger said. Now he was on the ground he felt fine, his calm, battle-hardened experience returning to him. The captain looked at his data slate, a little bit of dismay and annoyance showing on his face, before he spoke into his comms "Listen up, Light Company. The 9th have to take this bridge. The Light Company is the first company in, so we will advance on the bridge. The Navy boys have dropped the battalion over a two mile area, scattered thanks to that heavier-than-expected flak. We do not have time to wait for the rest of the regiment to form up, but we have to get there before the enemy. Squad leaders, have your squads form on you. Let's make this advance a little more orderly. And let's get some payback for those of us who didn't make it."

He looked at the faces of those nearest him. None seemed worried, none were nervous. Most of them had a grim determination about them.

"Alright, move out." The men cheered. Two hundred and fifty men headed forward, hellguns ready, carapace fixed tightly in place. The Garrowans were here for the bridge, and they would have it. Unsupported, the 9th's Light Company made for the bridge.

* * *

Colonel Frayzar watched as his regiment advancing through the abandoned streets. All around him, he could hear the distant fire of AA batteries, presumably the same AA fire that had robbed him of over one hundred men. Explosion could be heard after the whine of shell falls. But in this quadrant of the city, there seemed to be no signs of life. Of any kind.

The Grenadier Company was clearing rooms in some of the flanking buildings, and those over-seeing the bridge approach. The other companies were moving forward in well disciplined, orderly groups, none becoming lax or complacent at the complete lack of anyone in the streets. Apart from the three and a half thousand troopers of the regiment, there were no signs of life. No Imperial citizens, no enemy cultists, nothing. There were battle-scarred walls in the streets, ruined habs, ransacked shops, crude graffiti that hurt the colonels eyes, but no people.

Not even bodies. There was a fair amount of blood on the streets, evident of where killings had happened, but no bodies.

Nothing.

"Sir, where is everyone…" Sergeant Major Misdeagan asked, the grizzled old trooper obviously spooked by the near silent city.

"I only wish I knew, SM." Frayzar admitted. "What news from the Company commanders?"

"All the Companies are formed and now underway, sir. The tail-most is 5 Coy, they were dropped well outside of the LZ."

"Damn it all. We're a good twenty minutes behind the Light Company, and it will take me another half hour at least to get the battalion to that fecking bridge! Who needs the Navy." Frazyar ranted. "Vox officer!" the colonel growled at a nearby corporal.

"Yes, sir?" the reply was quick and crisp.

"Vox the regiment. I want the pace picked up as soon as possible."

The corporal was already in the process of unhooking the mic from the caster on his back. "At once, sir."

More autocannon fire could be heard in the distance, and through a gap between habs, Frayzar saw a lander erupt into flames and then detonate with massive force.

I'm glad that's none of my lads, the colonel thought rather uncharitably.

The colonel glanced at some of the graffiti, and he saw more archenemy symbols to their vile gods. They made his eyes water. And some seemed to….writhe, almost…as if alive. Here and there, he could see troopers slowing down as they glanced at the runes.

"Sergeant major, flamers up. I want those symbols burned off the walls whenever we see them."

"Yes, sir," Mesdeagan's voice was steely.

Frayzar threw of the queasy feeling in his gut, and urged his men on.

* * *

"Move! Spread out behind that cover!" Mc'Teger called to his foremost squads. He had made it to the bridge approach, and his men were now advancing onto the roadway. Abandoned and fire-gutted vehicles, both military and civilian, covered the roadway, the signs of battle evident all around. Broken PDF lasguns lay around some hastily erected rubble-barricades at Mc'Teger's end of the bridge.

"Sergeant, get five squads, make those barricades viable defensive positions."

"Sir." A burly Light NCO nodded and walked towards his men shouting.

Mc'Teger keyed his micro-bead, hoping he had enough range to reach the colonel.

"Mc'Teger to HQ, Mc'Teger to regimental HQ."

He waited for a moment through the static, but nothing came back. The captain tried again, again receiving nothing.

With a sigh, Mc'Teger called his vox man, who finally patched him through to the colonel.

"_Go ahead, Light_." Frayzar's gruff voice crackled through the vox handset.

"We are at the Bridge now, sir. I am having my men take positions on it, behind vehicles and rudimentary PDF barricades. Do you want me to attempt a full crossing?"

There was a brief pause.

"_No, captain. We have no idea where, or how many the enemy are, and I don't want my Light Company getting cut off behind enemy lines. Wait for battalion to arrive_."

"Of course, sir. We are digging in and should be in good shape to hold the bridge until your arrival. Any idea when that might be, sir?" Mc'Teger answered with his own question.

"_Hopefully no more than half an hour, but be prepared to hold on for longer if necessary. It seems we've been dropped away from the main travel artery to the bridge, so the regiment is navigating the side streets and hab quarters. It's taking time. We'll get to you as soon as I can, if I have to personally kick every arse in this regiment_." Frayzar said fiercely.

"Thank you sir. We'll see you soon, I have no doubt. Mc'Teger out."

"That the colonel?" Sergeant Nerar approached.

"Yes. They're on their way. We dig in, and we wait."

Nerar made a sort of snort-laugh and trudged towards his own squad. Mc'Teger knew it wasn't directed at him.

The captain watched his men work. Some were filling some burlap sacks with dirt and rubble from the roadway's foundations and setting them across the top of the barricades. Corporals directed teams of men to force some of the vehicles into more easily defendable enfilading positions.

The bridge itself was a tall, skeletal suspension bridge. There was no way for any enemy to get over the top without climbing gear. The bridge had a pair of walkways on either side under the span, wide enough for two men abreast that came out on the shore side, giving a perfect flanking enfilade to the bridge. The captain had already despatched men to cover these, and had trip-wires set for them too. They were a dangerous opportunity to flank his men, but Mc'Teger was sure they would also prove a hazardous crossing with squads positioned to cover their exit.

His two hundred and fifty men were spread along the bridge to about halfway, and all around the safe shoreline.

In the gloom of the opposite side, amidst the buildings and ruined habs, Mc'Teger could see shadows playing against walls, the lick of flames sending flickering lights against their surfaces like ghosts. Some seemed almost human in form…

"Lieutenant Mk'Erder, can you see anything?" the captain keyed his microbead to his forward OP, the furthest unit along the length of the span, a mere thirty five metres from the end of the bridge.

"_No, sir, why_?"

"Keep your eyes open just in cas…"

Before he could finish speaking, never mind hear a reply, a heavy hail of lasfire pattered across the bridge, striking the front of several barricades. An RPG banged into the shattered hull of a salamander, sending shrapnel flying.

"Cover and reply! Men of Garrowa, cover and reply!" Mc'Teger screamed, bracing his pistol for targets.

The shadowy forms had become dirty men and women, wearing torn clothing and carrying a bewildering array of small arms. There were dozens of them, and they seemed to be pouring from everywhere.

All around, Garrowans were returning fire, in tight, accurate bursts. The cultists, although being 400m away, could easily be heard screaming and throwing insults in their abhorrent language. Hundreds could be seen now, and they were unleashing a veritable storm of las and auto fire. They may not have the battle trained accuracy of the men they were facing, but there was enough of them to make the bridge a very dangerous place.

"Lieutenant, can you get a view on where they are coming from and how many they are?" Mc'Teger voxed over the snap of las fire crackling around the Light's heads. The captain received no answer. "Do you receive me, lieutenant Mk'Erder?"

A moment later, the lieutenant's voice came back, quiet and restrained.

"_No, sir. Negative on that_."

"Why not, lieutenant?"

"_I can't see them, sir_."

"Again, why not? They are right in front of you Lieutenant!"

"_I've taken some rockcrete splinters to the face. I can't see, sir_." The lieutenant replied quietly. There was no whining, no weeping or sobbing. The lieutenant's voice was hushed, but calm and steely.

"Hold on, I'm sending some men to get you out of there." Mc'Teger called back. Bellowing at a nearby medic and a corporals squad, he sent the men scampering for the lieutenant's position amidst a heavy cover fire.

Enemy las and auto shots thumped into the barricades and ruined vehicles. Every now and then, a Light trooper would

Take a round to his armour and fall, slowly shaking off the impact and getting back to his feet. Occasionally, the man wouldn't get back to his feet. The main danger was coming from a trio of well-covered heavy stubbers, whose rounds could easily break through the Garrowan Carapace armour. Frayzar had lost six men to them already.

And if any of those rockets actually hit their targets…

The Garrowan hell rounds were doing far more damage when they hit. Their hellguns were the Amp7 patter 'Angellus', manufactured by the Machanicus Conclave on the homeworld. Whilst not as powerful as the hot-shot lasguns used by Imperial Storm troopers, they had more stopping power than a normal las. Those troops supporting the Angels of the black Blade, usually in the thickest, fiercest of fighting, needed the additional power in their rounds. It came with a trade-off though – where a regular lasguns could fire anything from forty to eighty rounds on a single cell, an Angelus Hellgun could fire around thirty at best. The idea was with better training and accuracy, and the stopping power to kill with one or two rounds, you needed less capacity.

When a Garrowan round hit, cultists were losing torsos and whole limbs to the force of the weapons. But the cultists were well protected by the barrier between the river and the habs.

Along Mc'Teger's positions, grenade launchers fired with a 'whumph', dropping frag rounds on the heads of the cultists. Only two metres away from Mc'Teger, a plasma gun flared and spat super-heated energy at the enemy positions. A smell of ozone hit Mc'Teger as a piece of wall, and the cultists with it, were turned to molten slag with a flash as they were incinerated by the power of a small star for a micro-second.

Another Garrowan went down near the captain, a las round taking him under the brow of his armaplas helmet. There was a loud 'thunk' as the laser round spent it's energy on the inside of the man's helmet, and the now faceless corpse tumbled to the ground.

Mc'Teger swore and holstered his pistol, taking the rifle from the dead trooper with a handful of clips. The captain showed his men he was just as good a shot as they, clipping one overweight, dog-ugly cultists and exploding the skull of a second in as many shots.

From time to time, the enemy would approach the head of the bridge and advance. The squads with the injured Mk'Erder were there, and easily brought those cultists down. Even the fusillade they were suffering from the opposite bank wasn't enough to remove the Light troops.

"Drive them back!" Mc'Teger bellowed. "I want those scum removed from my bridge-head!"

The men around him bellowed their approval, snapping off quick, aimed shots.

The cheering from the cultists was getting louder, and Mc'Teger noticed Mk'Erder's men darting back from their position amid a flurry of enemy fire. Dirt spurted at their feet as they ran.

"Covering fire!" Nerar bellowed in his parade voice, beating Mc'Teger to it by half a second.

First came the medic, aiding Mk'Erder. They made the barricades, and kept going to the other bank. The troopers slammed down behind cover, and turned to fight.

"What happened?" Mc'Teger directed at an NCO.

"We could see along the highway sir, down the hill. Cultists to the southwest. Thousands of them! They were charging towards the bridge,"

"Fix bayonets!" Nerar anticipated. Hellguns fell silent for a moment, replaced with the slide and click of metal on rifle.

The noise grew louder as a great mass of archenemy cultists came into view, heading straight for the bridge. Those who had been firing on its length stopped to join the charge. All sorts of weapons were in evidence, all of them in some form delicate and ritualistic, yet brutal and horrible at the same time. Old auto's, battered las weapons, hostec pistols, clubs, slim blades. Many of the horde had pale skin, in patches discolouring purple, like bruising, only it seemed to be changing the shape of the affected area, too…

"Hold you fire! Take aim and wait!" Mc'Teger said through his micro-bead. "Check your clips, reload if you have to,"

Some of his men ejected half used clips, saving these for 'last chance' boxes, wanting a full load out for what was coming.

There were hundreds of cultists on the bridge now, and many more swarming the opposite shoreline. Their screams were merging into one long wail of obeisance. They came one, flocking towards Mc'Teger.

The captain could hear the squads guarding the walkways under the bridge firing, but they had their own fight right now.

"Keep you order," Nerar muttered to the nearest men. "Because you don't have to worry about those bastards, oh no. You have to worry about what I'll do if you fire early!"

A couple of men chuckled.

Mc'Teger gave the cultists a few more yards.

"Fire!"

The bridge erupted in a storm of light, grenades and fire.

* * *

"My Lord, I am sorry, but this is unreasonable! You are putting the lives of hundreds of thousands of Guardsmen to waste!" said a voice in High Gothic. His face, and that of his colleague, were hidden in the folds of his hood and the shadows of the holding vault.

"Their deaths are but a drop in the ocean. The technology is far more important, Adept." Another voice replied.

"You think I do not know this? But this force and felt you have assembled, Lord General, is a waste of valuable resources and weapons, never mind the men. And by telling the Administratum, this is a liberation effort is downright lies, and misappropriation."

"STCs are too few and far too valuable to be squeamish, Adept. It must be recovered!"

"These forces could be en route to Medusa V, but you have them here on a hunch! You have no proof! And you cannot waste such forces without it. As a member of the Administratum, I cannot allow this to go on!" the Adept snapped back.

"You will do nothing, Adept. And, furthermore, you will mention _nothing_ of this to anyone, without my express permission." A new figure stepped from the shadows.

"Your authority does not reach that far," the hooded adept hissed. "I will report this, inquisitor. You have over stepped your boundaries." The hooded adept turned and hurried away.

"What will we do?" the second figure asked, voice in a slight panic.

"There will be no trouble from him, Lord General." The other replied, before muttering into a hidden vox. From the darkest shadows, a dark figure, blacker than the blackness around it, detached itself and seemed to almost slighter along the wall, following the path of the adept.

"As I said, General, all will be fine."

* * *

"Sir," the Grenadier Captain, Timadea, said to Frayzar. They could hear the disciplined volleys and keening wail from the bridge, now only about half a mile away at most.

"I hear it. How fast can you press the Grenadier company?"

"How fast do you need?"

"Get there ten minutes ago, support Mc'Teger until the battalion moves up."

"That's always the problem with Heavy Infantry. Ever wished you joined the fusiliers?" Timadea asked with a chuckle.

"No, because then I'd be from Genethro Prime, and that city smells like the arse end of a sick grox." Frayzar returned the jest, also mocking the second greatest city on Garrowa for the sake of it.

"Grenadier Company, on me!" Timadea called out, and his men trouped to him. They were all tall, strong men, veterans one and all. The Grenadier and Light Companies were the only ones in Heavy battalions who did not receive replacements from fresh drafts. They drew theirs from Centre companies, so all their men were experienced soldier.

Timadea took a hellgun from one of Frayzar's colour party, and went off at the job for the bridge, whose upper stanchions were now wreathed in dark smoke from the battle bellow. Behind him, three hundred and sixty two Grenadiers, ready for a fight, followed him, fixing bayonets as they went.


	5. Chapter 4

_Help us help us help us help us help us help us help us_

_"Who are you?" Macara bellowed silently into the storm. Everywhere there was dust. Dust, and nothing at all._

_Help us help us help us help us help us help us help us_

_"Who are you?" Macara bellowed again. Again he received no answer._

_At the corners of his vision, he could see figures, in shadow, dancing and bounding. Yet every time he looked, they were gone, as if disappearing under his gaze._

_The figures were moving into the dust, and Macara followed._

_He followed for what seemed an age, and yet what seemed to be no time at all. Through the dust he went, leaving no tracks._

_The figures stopped bounding suddenly, shadows in the near-distance. Still the colonel found he could not look at them without them melting into the background._

_"What do you want from me?"_

_A shadow moved through the dust, and the other shadows, still on the periphery of his vision, recoiled._

_The shape before him coalesced into a shape, at once both terrifying as it was dreadful._

_A two metre tall metal Skelton stalked towards him, stopping bare metres away. It carried a staff of the most horrific green light; the same light that shone from its eyes, lighting the pale silver face and the swirls of dusk around it._

_The thing pointed its staff. Macara flinched at the action as green light enveloped him. His skin, his flesh, all the layers of his being were being torn from him, torn sucked back towards the staff…..Macara fought to scream, but his body was already gone, and his blackened bones spilled into the dust…_

* * *

Macara started, blinking and looking round. He was still in the command centre on the transport ship Benediction. The Captain had given them permission to use the auxiliary bridge as a command centre, where Mk'Fedan was taking in everything that was happening. The Garrowan forces were connected to the Dramarian and Ramillien units on the planet, and to the assaulting Elysian units.

Militant General Faulin was still en route, so Mk'Fedan had taken command until his arrival, no other general staff disagreeing with the choice.

Staff officers dashed about, making changes to displays and carrying dataslates.

"How are the Rifles doing?" Macara heard Mk'Fedan ask Bukanan.

"The Cathedral and Warehouse are ours, now sir. None of the relief column has made it through yet, though."

"Of course they haven't! The Ramilliens won't send their damned armour any further until we control the bridges on both side," Mk'Fedan muttered.

"Can't you just order them?" the colonel asked.

"I have, Daine. But they maintain they are encountering sporadic enemy attacks that are slowing them down." Mk'Fedan shook his head wearily. "It's like pounding my head against a brick wall."

"They could help us to win the bridges," Macara growled. "We kept them standing, the armour can roll over and break through surely? Don't they know how important that landing field is?"

"I don't think they do, Daine, I don't think they do. Mike, what is the opposition at the cathedral like?"

"Light enough. But I don't want to send any of the attacking battalions back to the bridges, Bylin. We know how many cultists there are in the way, and without armour support…." The Light General let the worlds trail off.

Macara could just see, from his seat, the real-time holograph of the battle, how things were proceeding. Around the hive towers, patches of blue showed the barracks and all the factories held by the Imperials. Here and there, areas of red showed where cultists remained, trying ineffectually to break these areas of defence. Three long, thin blue lines showed the progression of the armoured columns through the city, one aimed straight at each of the bridges. The Western sectors of the city were a mix of red and background grey. Four miles towards the North West of Alpha Bridge, centrally located, was where the Landing field was - with a circle of blue was fighting in towards the Space port, as well as against those Chaos forces pressing in from behind.

And, most worrying to Macara and the generals, all along the length of the river, were heavy concentrations of red. Icons showed places where air-support had been called, and three more thin strips of blue represented the embattled bridgeheads.

"We can't do much to help them until that field is taken, or the armour moves up." Bukanan spat. The grizzled man looked at Macara, who was still reeling from the odd dream. "Are you okay Macara? You're pale."

Macara couldn't answer for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "I…I'm fine. Just a little worried about Frayzar's mob. They've been there for two days now."

"I know what you mean. I want to get down there." Bukanan replied, features set grimly.

"Sir! General Demerche for you!" one of the vox men called to Mk'Fedan. "There's been a development."

Mk'Fedan swore in Garrowan, the guttural noises causing bewildered looks from some of the navy men inside. "What now."

* * *

"Ammo running low, sir!" Sergeant Nerar shouted. He was now the most senior member of the Light Company left under Captain Mc'Teger. Lieutenant Bylar had taken a tank round to the midriff, dying with seven other men of the company.

"I'll send back to our side of the bridge for more." Mc'Teger replied.

It was now the second day of the mission, and their ammunition was perilously low. The cultists had attacked for nearly nineteen hours straight. Literally thousands had died in the attacks.

The previous day, Timadea and his Grenadiers had arrived to see the Light Company mowing down a swathe of Chaos soldiers. The big men, with bayonets fixed, had relieved the Light Soldiers and had charged the devastated mass, pushing them all the way across, scattering them despite their numbers. When Frayzar had arrived with the rest of the battalion, the Light and Grenadier companies were securing the opposite bridgehead. The colonel set up his heavy weapons and spread his troopers along the bank and across the bridge. With the regiment defending it, it was now a much harder challenge to break.

But the cultists were trying. They had attacked almost constantly over the course of the day. The 9th's Companies had rotated so none bore more of the fighting than the others, and now the Light Company, along with 7 Company, were holding the far side.

"Sir, we really need that ammo! Squads are down to their last mags!" the sergeant called again. Mc'Teger was grabbed his own vox-man, not the same man who had been in the role the day before, holding the mic. "The colonel, sir!"

"Colonel Frayzar, we could really use some more ammo up here," Mc'Teger said before Frayzar could say anything.

"_Yes, I know. It's on its way captain. I've called in an air strike, so you may want to get small. Once it's been, I want you to go into them and push them back. Battalion will follow you through_."

"Yes, sir, I'll pass the word" Mc'Teger grinned fiercely. He looked around him before yelling through his microbead.

"Get small! Air strike coming!"

The men at the bridgehead crouched behind their cover, still firing, until the whine of supersonic engines came overhead.

"Down!" Mc'Teger called.

* * *

"Strike wing, this is Wing Leader. Come in low and fast at angle three-three delta. Keep your fire on the opposite bank. Those Guard boys are strung along it, and we don't want to kill too many of them." The Wing Leader spoke, slightly muffled by his flight mask.

He received six affirmatives from his pilots as they pulled in for their attack run.

Seven Lightening strike fighters swooped down from the dirty clouds formed from two days of dropships and energy rounds bruising the atmosphere, to a height only about four hundred off the deck, lower even than some of the hab towers. Autocannons fired first, spraying deadly rounds across the waterfront. Then they fired their missiles, HE warheads shooting straight for the cultists. Huge chain explosions rippled through the far bank, throwing debris and bodies into the air. Flames leaped almost as high in the air as the fighters as the huge explosions tore up the faces of the habs for one hundred metres of waterfront. Burning figures dove into the water.

"Good job, wing. Head back to the ships for refuelling." The Wing Leader spoke when they had passed over the bridge. He looked at some runes scrawling along his data screen.

"Scrub that, gentlemen. Head for the landing field. Seems the Elysians have finally taken and secured it. That relief column is a bit of a waste of time. We refuel there." He said. Once again, he had unison replies from his pilots. The fighters veered off, leaving destruction and death in their wake, like avenging angels.

* * *

Mc'Teger watched the fighters fly overhead. Before him cultists died in droves. Only a few score remained on the bridge approach, other reeling and fleeing.

"Now, lads! Fix and deny! Take the bridge and drive them back!" Mc'Teger had his sword in hand. He was first over the barricades, followed by an angry host of Garrowans, all bellowing their fury in victory. He had reached and killed two cultists before his men caught up. They swarmed over those Chaos cultists not quick enough to escape, stabbing and cutting.

"Come on! Light Company! On! ON!" Mc'Teger shouted.

His men were pouring off the bridge onto the highway, followed by & Coy, when a lucky solid shot caught him between the shoulder and torso joint of his carapace. Mc'Teger felt himself falling, time slowing. Blood trickled onto the ground. The last thing he heard was Nerar calling for a medic before falling into darkness.

* * *

The men on the bridge tried to get some sleep that night. The cultists, obviously broken by their losses, had not attacked again. Frayzar had a full company on picket duty beyond the bridge. He was on the 'friendly' side, walking amongst the wounded. The butchers list stood at three hundred and seventeen dead, including those lost in the dropships, with four hundred and ninety-four wounded, one hundred and seventy of those seriously. Mc'Teger was amongst that number, his wound serious but not fatal. That was, if medics could get to him soon.

"Alright soldier?" Frayzar asked one leg-shot man from 6 Company.

"Not bad, sir. It's funny so it is, but my left leg has this big hole in it." The man replied jovially, despite the pain.

"Carry on Macnam." Frayzar said sadly, proud of the determination of his men. He glanced at the CP, seeing some dark figures talking to one of his majors. The colonel strode over and found colonel Macara in quiet conversation, a chimera idling nearby with Fusilier marking on it. One of the vox men in the process of calling Frayzar anyway, and put the mic down with a wan smile when he saw the colonel coming.

"Evening, sir." Frayzar saluted. Macara saluted back.

"Good job, Frayzar. What's the numbers."

"Well, I have about twenty five hundred men in a fit state to fight, but they are exhausted and low on ammo. I have over eight hundred casualties, almost half of those fatal. Any news from the column?" Frayzar asked wearily.

"You'll have the 8th relieving you anytime inside of the hour. The 5th will be here inside of three. Your men will be using the 8th's Chimeras to get them to their billets at the main spine."

"We can march, sir." Frayzar replied fiercely.

"I know you can, Dylen, but I think you've earned the rest." Macara smiled slightly. Frayzar went to argue, then smiled himself.

"You're right. Thanks for arranging it."

"And idea on enemy losses?" Macara changed the subject.

"We estimate about four times our own, sir. They just kept running into the guns."

Macara sighed. "That's what I feared, that there were enough of them to be able to use such tactics. Thanks colonel. Oh, and Dylen,"

"Sir?"

"No sirs. I'm no Brigadier."

"No. Not yet." Frayzar grinned openly, throwing a salute.

The two men stood for a moment, the quiet of the night highlighting distant fighting as armoured units made their way from the landing fields to the places they needed to defend. Over that, they could hear the sound of numerous chimeras, rumbling in the distance.

"I think that's your lift. Get the men ready to move,"

* * *

"Atten – shun!" Lord General has entered the room!" General Mareven called. The assembled officers rose to their feet in respectful silence as Lord General Faulin walked in, flanked by immaculately dressed Kasrkin. With his back to Faulin, Mareven grimaced as his commander spoke. It seemed that his tenure aboard the Garrowan ship on their way to Ramillies had rubbed off on him.

"Gentlemen, I have called you all, regimental, brigade and divisional commanders, here, to talk about the next stop now we have landed the main army," he looked around the assembled officers, conveniently forgetting to mention who it was who had landed the army for him whilst he was en route.

The meeting was being held in the Governor's office in the main spine, a very large and opulent room where the hundred or so men were able to fit.

Since the Landing fields were taken and the Garrowan forces landed, the cultists had seemed to disappear. Even recon flights or orbital recon couldn't seem to find any movements.

The objectives were all taken, and the majority of the Eastern sector was now classed friendly. The West, where the majority of the factorums lay, was not, except for the two small enclaves at the Cathedral and landing field.

"Be seated," Mareven said. At the main table sat Faulin, Mareven and another Cadian general. With them sat a senior commissar and some Cadian command staff, with the Governor and the commander of the PDF beside Faulin.

The other generals and colonels sat in groups of their own kind. This polarisation was normal, as men wanted to be with their colleagues. However, it was possible to read more into it; Garrowans and Dramarians sat close by, many of their regiments having fought against the Tau in the S'karr campaign. The Elysians and Cadians were quite tightly packed, keeping their distance from the wild, grim hillmen from Garrowa. The PDF, eager to please and be on the right side of the Guard, sat around the Cadians too.

Cartel and his grizzled trench fighter from Dramar sat together, their wide brimmed steel helmets in their laps, many wearing strange dark blue forage caps, with black silk ribbons at the back and red, white and black dicing along the headband. Demerche was with his jump troopers, a long scar going from top of his face to bottom, over the left eye. Both looked like men who didn't shirk frontline over their careers.

M'sade and his Thorans, all olive-skinned, dark haired warriors, were in a group of their own, showing no allegiances except to their Emperor.

"So far, the plan has worked almost to the letter," Faulin spoke again. There was a slight murmur in the crowd. Macara noticed where sounds of distance came from, and noticed those nodding their agreement.

"We have suffered light casualties and killed thousands of the enemy. Our army group is formed up around the Main spine and barracks, with units holding the Space Port and Cathedral. We shall move out from the main spine and drive them before us." Faulin stated. Macara noticed Mk'Fedan's face flush with anger slightly, his teeth gritted, hands clenched. M'sade shook his head and looked away. Cartel, to Macara's surprise, nodded.

Towards the back of the room, there were some dark chuckles. The black and green uniformed men of the Thracian 34th and 133rd Armoured 'Pack Wolves' sat there. These men were unexpected arrivals, come to the planet when their transport ship received the summons to all nearby units; being only a week's transit away, they had come eagerly. Their highest ranker present was Colonel Fletchland.

"What is so funny?" Faulins Chief of Staff asked acidly. General Tollin was man very similar to the Garrowans Tern; Macara wondered if the Schola Progenium made all its officers and commissars so arrogant and similar in attitude.

"We have to secure the factories. We don't need to 'drive the enemy from the city' at this early stage." Fletchland sighed.

General Bukanan used this chance to speak up. "We also still have units in the field. They are holding objectives and could probably do with reinforcements around about now"

"Well, General, his lordship has decided," Tollin muttered. "That we should punish the enemies of His divine majesty and throw them from Tenba city."

The Cadians and Elysian nodded and clapped, the PDF copying this reaction. Some of the Dramarians seemed to join this opinion. The Garrowans sat silently, letting their thoughts show in their glares. The Thorans, a reasonably unknown element to Macara, also appeared less than pleased with this decision.

Before anyone could speak again, a head popped in the door.

"I thought I said no interruptions!" Tollin bellowed. The Guard blanched

"Eh...sir, I have someon..."

"Out with it!"

Three figures in jungle green fatigues and mismatched armour pushed past the guard into the room. They had big builds, and had healthy, tropical complexions; one of the men was almost completely black, looking for all the world like one of the Salamander Astartes, and the majority of guard issue chest and shoulder armour, except where bits had been damaged and less-than-skilfully repaired. Macara grinned at these soldiers and their fighting appearance. One had the rank slides of Senior Colonel, the Verdanus equivalent to General, with two subordinates.

"You are late, Colonel Dreksson." Faulin said rather arrogantly. "This meeting was scheduled an hour ago,"

_But only started fifteen minutes ago because you yourself was late_. Macara thought.

Dreksson gave a small sneer in return. "I was out patrolling for these cultists who have gone to ground. Our 'Nychus should be able to find them anywhere."

Faulin looked down his nose distastefully. "Those would be your…mounts, I assume?"

"Our Velocinychus, yes. We haven't found them yet, but we will. They're good at identifying scum." The Senior Colonel said, sitting with his two juniors.

There was a chuckled in the room, coming from the Garrowans and the Thorans again. Somewhere a Thracian clapped.

"Well, now that that is sorted, back to the matter at hand.

"Sir, I am referring to your plans for troop movements when I ask this. I thought our mission was to take and defend the factories to help in the war effort in this sector. Especially with Medusa V under attack." A Thoran Colonel spoke out.

"Do not fear, Colonel B'cyver, we will still restart production in the factories. However, we can move on with the main force and sweep the enemy out of the area completely. It is all they deserve, of course." Faulin stated plainly. Some of his Cadians clapped at the comment sycophantically, followed by most of the Ramilliens and some Elysians. Macara realised the meeting had definitely degenerated into factions. On the Garrowans part, it all stemmed from losing the men of the Terurn Guard due to Faulin. Mk'Fedan, however, wasn't far from Faulin in rank, being Mc'Alastor's own second in command, and held a lot of sway in any debate.

The colonel of the 5th, however, did notice that general Mareven and the officers of the 34th and 104th didn't seem to be completely in Faulin's 'camp'. They sat more centrally, not ostracising their own comrades, but not alienating the other Guard present. They had never served under Faulin before, and unlike the other Cadians, were not part of his division regularly, so Macara concluded they were less biased in their opinions.

"That idea sounds very ideal, Lord General. I look forward to hearing the details. The enemies of mankind should not be allowed to roam His cities freely, and we should be the ones to throw them out of it." General Demerche commented. This time, more Elysian, and most Ramillien and Cadians, clapped and cheered.

_Oh throne; this is turning into a battle of ass kissing, isn't it_. Macara sighed.

Also, amongst the other regiments, it seemed a division was forming. The Verdani had sat beside the Thorans immediately, and it seemed that they were thinking along the same lines as the Garrowans. The Dramarians hadn't cast their vote, but Macara was sure they would side with the Ramilliens and Cadians; after all, the warriors of Dramar had been fighting for two months already. They would want payback for lost comrades.

The Elysians were a famed force in the Imperium, so were the Cadians and he could see the two coming together to form the basis of the Imperial Army group. No matter what anyone else thought.

The Thracians, it seemed, had obvious sidings.

"Can you believe this shit?" Cairns leaned over and muttered. As the acting CO of the 5th, he was allowed to this meeting, and was one of six majors present, everyone else holding higher rank.

"Not really. Give him a minute, we'll see what the plan is," Macara whispered back.

"If you will settle down, General Tollin will show you what I mean."

"Private, the projector," Tollin snapped at a young trooper, who flicked the device on. It showed a 3D representation of the city, much like the holo-projector aboard the _Benediction_. Tollin gestured with a laser pointer.

"Here, we have our forces at their current locations," he identified the large blue area that represented the friendly forces around the Main Spine. "We have secured these factories, and trained workers are already getting them back to operation standards. We will secure the others so they too can be put into use. This involves contact with the enemy. In order to clear them from the city, we will deploy as such," two long blue lines formed, north to south, and began moving across the map, sweeping theoretical red blocks before them. The lead line angled north, the rear south, until they had made a formation stretching three quarters of the width of the city, securing each factorum as we reach it. This tactic is twofold, driving the enemy out and restarting productivity. We will literally sweep the enemy from the city one hab-block at a time." He finished. More blasted clapping followed. Most of the officers from what could be called the 'Mk'Fedan Faction' just looked on, appalled.

"Is this a joke?" Colonel Mk'Greyger spoke up.

"No. I don't see why it should be." Tollin spat.

"We don't have the man power to defend the Main Spine, the Barracks, Landing fields and the bridges, never mind the factorum and still drive the enemy back. If we had more men, we could try it, yes. Try, like, a _million_."

"I believe, lieutenant colonel, that this is the best option open to us. We need to strike a defining blow now, before the enemy can consolidate."

"It's a bloody stupid idea," General M'sade stated. Macara noticed even Cartel not looking so confident in the Generals choice of tactics.

"That is enough, general." Tollin warned.

"No, I want to know why the general thinks this." Faulin asked, face turning red.

"For the reasons already pointed out. The size of the city. The fact there is _at least _a million cultists in the city. The fact they have fully operation MBTs, even Leman Russ pattern. How can we launch an attack against those forces and hold ground?"

"We are the hammer of the Emperor. These treacherous scum are not trained or well equipped. Our training will see us march over them." Faulin said with resentment on his face.

There was an uproar then, as officers threw insults and yelled at each other.

"Calm down! Calm!" Tollin tried. Faulin also tried to calm things.

"BE QUIET!" Bukanan's huge voice bellowed. That worked.

"Settle down, please, gentlemen! You are officers!" Mk'Fedan growled.

"Thank you, general…" Faulin began.

"Sir, my forces cannot support an attack like this without first suggesting alternate strategy." Mk'Fedan said firmly. The look on his face brooked no argument, even from Faulin. Rage flashed behind the Lord General pale eyes, but he knew he couldn't win this argument. He had a different way.

"I see opinions and tempers are high. I shall, seeing as this is a tactical discussion, allow for a vote on the plan. We shall go with those tactics best for the task, and we shall agree on them together. Will you abide by your comrades choice?" Faulin said impishly. Macara groaned, guessing what would happen. Mk'Fedan nodded, a suspicious look in his eyes.

Macara did some quick arithmetic. There were eighty eight officers present amidst the meeting, the commissars at the back of the room there more as a matter of regulation. Forty six alone were Cadian or Ramillien, which meant that this vote was almost an automatic win for the Cadian general.

"All those who disagree with the current strategy, please make yourselves known." Tollin muttered.

Fourteen Garrowan hands went up almost straight away, with some groans from the Cadian staff. The Thorans raised their own. That made twenty two.

The Verdanus colonel, Dreksson, and his officers gave curt "Hear hears", and the Senior-colonel nodded to Mk'Fedan.

Twenty five.

The Thracians also lent their weight to the argument on Mk'Fedan's side. Even more surprisingly, two Elysians, a Ramillien and three Cadians also voted with the Garrowans.

Thirty five.

Macara counted quickly – fifty one Cadian, Elysian and Ramillien votes remained. With the Dramarian vote, they would have it!

Three Dramarian hands rose. No more.

"I think that gives us the result," Faulin said with a self-satisfied grin. "Now we have established what tactics we shall use, I suggest we think about going to our duties.

Tollin leaned in and whispered something, at length, to Faulin. The Lord General nodded a couple of times, made a noise in his throat that may have been agreement, then straightened up.

"General Tollin has brought a point to me. There is obviously some bad blood, possibly some animosity brewing amidst us. For the duration of this campaign, I am reforming the brigades of the Liberation force. This is normal practise, allowing men to fight together and alongside other regiments and form bonds of comradeship," Faulin said whilst scribbling on a data slate Tollin and also handed him.

There were some murmurs; the Garrowan were not happy, but all the units knew that serving in the guard meant serving in the brigades or divisions you were told to. It was rare to see a division without units from another world.

But it was when they saw the new brigades pop up on their own data slates as Faulin hit send. Three brigades were made entirely of Cadians, with their original commanders. The next few were Cadian and Ramillien mixes.

"You must be joking me!" I will not lose the command of my brigade and then have the men scattered amongst commanders who have no idea about their combat strengths!" Bukanan bellowed, standing. Two of the Commissars at the back of the room let hands wander to holsters.

"If you do not silence yourself at once, you will not have a brigade to command at all." Faulin raged back, finally tired of his decisions being questioned.

Bukanan sat heavily. Murmurs ran through the assembled officer.

"The general does not wish to usurp any senior officers, so they will still retain brigade command, the only difference being the men under their command." Tollin said. "This is the Lord Generals last words on the matter. An objections can be issued in writing."

Mk'Fedan stood. "I will go and prepare my men now, sir." The Garrowan general said tersely.

"Very well," Faulin gestured at the door with his hand. The other Garrowans also stood, their faces a mix of anger and disgust. The other units who had backed them did too, amidst a flurry of catcalls.

Along the corridor, well away from the Governor's office, Mk'Fedan pulled Bukanan and Macara over to a balcony overlooking the Spine. M'sade and Dreksson also joined them, their faces set firm. Fletchland stood to one side with his officers, close enough to listen, not close enough to seem interested.

"Now listen well. I hate the fact that there already seems to be a division amongst our forces. We are on the same fecking side, yet we seem to fighting one another. I don't, however, want to be a scapegoat for any mishaps, so we follow orders to the letter. As soon as men started dying needlessly, then we act. Can I assume I have all your support?"

M'sade and Dreksson nodded, and Colonel Fletchland even voiced am affirmative from his side of the corridor.

"Good. Now, see to your men, brief them, then come to my headquarters. 0600 standard. I'm on the seventy-sixth level. So, for the moment, good night, gentlemen." Mk'Fedan finished, striding off. Officers broke into little groups and headed to their own quarters.

"Colonel, can I speak with you?" the Thoran colonel B'cyver called to Macara, walking over.

"Certainly, colonel."

"I thought it would be best if I introduced myself, as my battalion will be in your brigade, it seems. I am Kerrin B'cyver." He held out his hand. Macara took it warmly.

"Daine Macara. Good to meet you."

"I've never served alongside Garrowans, though some of ours were on Ichar IV with you. General M'sade was one of them, and has only praise for you." Kerrin smiled.

"Thank you. The 17th was the unit on Ichar IV, yes?" Macara asked in return.

"Yes, they were. Good men all. They were finally allowed home recently. First time in a decade." B'cyver admitted.

"I always forget it is not normal Guard procedure to go home after every campaign." Macara smiled wanly. Major Cairns appeared beside him, and the colonel made the necessary introductions.

"I suggested we retire to the mess, have a proper conversation." Macara suggested. The other two men nodded, and they left to find a lift.


	6. Chapter 5

"They are falling for it, Evocatae," a helmeted soldier spoke to a tall, similarly dressed figure. Dirty-cream fatigues daubed in symbols of devotion were their uniforms, chipped and scarred black flack armour plates their defences. These men, elite, bodyguard soldier with decades of experience, wore forged-metal helmets, almost knightly in their appearance were it not for the eye-piercing symbols and patches of dirt and blood. Numerous figures toiled in the gloom of the cavern-like room. All wore vaguely similar outfits; cream and black, though there the uniformity ended.

"The cultists have performed their role better than we could have expected." Another figure, with a similar knightly helmet, spoke.

The tall figure made a rough noise through its mouth grill on a gleaming metal helmet, like the bodyguards' own. Warriors were blessing rifles of numerous patterns; autos, las rifles, carbines, even the odd bolter. Their skin was pale, some like alabaster, many with purple circles under their eye sockets, as if suffering an odd jaundice. Bowl helmets, bandanas, all sorts of head wear was present. Many stopped when they heard the noise from their Evocatae.

It was laughter.

"Ready the Kohorts." The breath misted through the helmets grill. All around, warriors pumped their arms in their air and yelled.

"Narcissus! Narcissus! NARCISSUS!"

* * *

Macara, Cairns and B'cyver sat in conversation. So far it had all been about their arrival on Ramillies.

"Well, I'm sure the lads will get on grand," Cairns nodded, supping some caffeine from a tin mug. The Thoran smiled at them with perfect white teeth, his light brown skin a stark contrast. His thick, jet black hair was trimmed neatly, and perfectly framed the warrior tattoo covering a good quarter of his face and neck.

Macara decided to find out more about his new allies. "Yes, indeed. Now, colonel, enough of the mission. Tell me about your Thorans. I thought you were all drop troops?"

The well-built colonel chuckled slightly. "Well, not quite mate. Yes, we have lots of drop troops because of the way our world is. But we have plenty of space and men to train infantry regiments as well. And I can tell you that only the Infantry are allowed the title Bravers!"

Macara smiled, confused slightly. "What do you mean, the way your world is? Tell us of Thora."

B'cyver thought for a moment and then spoke. "We have one vast sea surrounding a single continent, but there are several thousand islands spread around the globe. Few can home more than a couple of hundred thousand people, with only one large enough to maintain a population into the millions. However, when all are taken into account, these islanders still make up seventy percent of our population." he paused a moment for a quick drink of water, and then continued.

"The continent is a place of rolling plains and great forests. There are a few large cities, and many towns. The cities are big, really big. Couple of million in each. Communications are great due to the relatively flat land. The climate is one of warm, wet weather. Very green and humid for most of the year, when the storm season isn't hitting. We have many farmers and agri-districts now, and produce some of the finest pilots the Navy could ever want! Our main love, though, is the sea. We were a naval people, we needed to be due to the type of world we had. You often had to trade with other islands, and tribes would wander far across the globe. Then, when we could fly, we bred some of the best pilots. When the Imperium re-discovered us and brought us back to His light, they decided our pilots would come in very handy for the Navy. Since that day, the sector fleets have done whatever they can to procure Thoran pilots!"

"If your home is so flat, what stops the sea from consuming it?" Cairns asked. The idea of a flat world intrigued, and frightened, him.

"Our home is about sixty metres above sea level, on a plateau. It is, I am told, an odd form for land to take, with no natural gradient towards the sea. We have settlements at the cliff base, too, with stairs and ramps carved in the rock to the surface. The islands, however, do tend to suffer from the Storm Season, many have been consumed, whilst new ones form regularly. I miss it, for I have not seen it in thirteen years."

Macara nodded. "It must be hard being away from home for so long."

"You said, back at the briefing, that it is odd for you, the idea of not going home. How did you mean?" the Thoran Braver asked, interested.

"Well, because of our odd formation, we follow Angels companies to battle. They often return to Garrowa. Whilst it could still be a decade at a time, our forces have a much better chance of seeing home than other Guard. It is a strange day indeed when Garrowan forces do not support the Angels of the Black Blade. It is why we were created, it is what we were trained for."

"I…didn't think Astartes were allowed their own personal armies?" B'cyver asked honestly. Some of the spindly black legs of his tattoo twitched with his cheek muscles as he spoke. Macara smiled at the directness.

"I don't think they are meant to. But Garrowans have been fighting for the Emperor for two thousand years as guardsmen. We are loyal to Him and will fight where and when we are needed." Cairns replied for the colonel.

"We have an Adeptus Sororitas convent in our capital now," Macara said sadly. "The Order of the Vigilant Watch. They are there to ensure our loyalty, by force if needs be. And we have commissars for the first time since our inception."

"Your regiments have a discipline problem?" B'cyver asked, surprised.

"Not even slightly," Cairns groaned, knowing that now was the time Macara normally began a rant. The colonel restrained himself this time, given the company they were keeping.

"They will never trust us. But we will fight and die for them none the less,." Macara finished.

"Good enough for me. Just as long as your rifles aren't pointing at me, that is,." B'cyver smiled.

"Well, his might be, but that's only because he can't shoot straight,." Cairns laughed. "Now, you asked about Garrowa, sir. Imagine a world the complete opposite of yours. Whilst we have one continent, it's because we only have two seas, no part of our world being unconnected to another. And mountains,." Cairns said, eyes lighting at the thought of home. Macara also smiled.

"Mountains?" B'cyver returned the infectious grin. "I must admit, I do enjoy the sight of a great peak in any theatre."

"How about a world of peaks and valleys? What little flat land we have are all part of the valleys, some of those being fifteen miles across, but the rest is a world of beautiful, snow-capped peaks." The Major replied. His voice had sped up slightly, his accent broadening.

"The cities are in the glens. Our largest valley runs for three hundred miles, and is some twenty wide at its largest. At one end of the pass, there is the capital. And between the valley floor and the city, Gateway Pass. Two huge mountains stand guard, named Anu Beig and Anu Ainir. Gateway Pass, also the name of the fortress monastery, lies there. Our home bastion." Macara's voice was full of pride.

"We don't like flat," Cairns said. "Not because it has no beauty, Colonel B'cyver, but it makes us feel…uncomfortable. A horizon is a strange thing to us. We naturally feel ill-at-ease with no tower mountains."

"I can imagine it may be odd if you grew up in their shadows. It does sound a beautiful place however. The fields and forests, the crystal blue waters, all of my home is beautiful to me. But they don't have the majesty of mountains, and I am a strange one of my kind - a sailor who prefers the land,." B'cyver said.

"Trust me, colonel, it can be a hard life too. The cold is perpetual during winter. And it's not exactly tropical during the summer. I would give my right arm to see a long, green field, or ocean without coastline. I should go to your world," Macara smiled.

"He's just sick of having to hike up those mountains to the Pass," Cairns muttered, taking a drink from his mug.

The three men chuckled away as a stocky officer approached them.

"Eh, excuse me?"

He was a major, and a Cadian at that. He came to attention and saluted. Cairns looked away with a scoff. "Major Avre, C.O of the 104th Cadian." the newcomer said. The Garrowan and Thoran colonels just looked at him.

"I have, ah, just received my routing orders. As you saw in Faulin's notes, my regiment is in your brigade,"

"I didn't, as it happens, because I haven't looked at the damned thing since I got out of that room,." Macara snapped, perhaps unfairly. The violet eyes narrowed slightly in return.

Avre, to his credit, did not flinch, continuing. "I know our esteemed High Lord has had confrontations with you in the past, and at the moment you're not too happy with Cadians in general. Well, I happen to believe the Lord General is quite an arrogant man,"

"That comes with ranks," Cairns sneered, taking a drink, not even deigning to make eye contact.

Avre continued. "I also see his idea of breaking up perfectly formed brigades when fighting an enemy we have no reliable intelligence on, a risk."

"Now, why would you hold such opinions, major?" Macara asked, slightly harder than he intended. Avre seemed unfazed, however.

"I serve in General Mareven's Division. He has gone to great pains to let us know how effective you and your fellows are, and not to pre-judge, like so many other officers already have done. We are loyal to the Lord General, but we will not allow allied units to have a reason to hate us. My battalion is made up of many raw men – we lost a lot of troopers fighting for our home. They would rather be at home fighting there. Most are fresh from the Whiteshield units, some as young as seventeen. They don't need a bitter feud with veteran Guardsmen." Avre finished. He held out his hand to the three officers sat before him. B'cyver took it. Macara gave Cairns a look that only men who had known each other for decades could translate. Cairns shook the hand as well.

As Macara did the same, he spoke.

"It is good to know Cadia can produce more fine men like Mareven." he said warmly. Avre nodded proudly.

* * *

"Mike, you have command of the 19th Thoran, 511th Dramarian and three PDF regiments." Mk'Fedan growled sadly.

Bukanan punched the wall of the room, making a dent in the plasti-board wall. "Not a single bloody battalion of my own men. Not one, Bylin. The bastard." The bearded giant snarled. Mk'Fedan just shook his head before continuing on with the make-shift briefing.

"General T'emether, you will have my 9th Heavy infantry and 10th Rifles. You will also have the Cadian 23rd and two Dramarian units, the eh…3rd and 87th." He nodded at a Thoran brigadier.

"You are both, however, in my division, thank the Throne." M'sade said.

"That's a little bit of good news amongst a pile of utter shite. Sir." Bukanan stated.

"I should point out the Cadian 23rd and 104th are the only Cadian units not being commanded by their original brigade officer." The Thoran replied. That was met by many verbose comments on the Cadian hierarchy.

"Quiet, gentlemen." Mk'Fedan snapped, stilling the noise.

The Thoran nodded, and continued speaking. "Finally, the last brigades under our command. I should let you know, Tollin was not happy with a colonel commanding a brigade, but he agreed in the end when I pointed out that our colonel here is more experienced than any of the three general staff he wanted to put in command instead. That, and by this stage I was so angry I believe my face was the same colour as my shoulder pads. And besides, only colonel Mc'Caulish is senior to you Macara," Mk'Fedan said. The reference to the senior colonel was made because everyone understood armour was subservient to infantry command.

"So, sir, who do I get?" Macara asked.

"You have most of the 1st Cavalry, the Thoran67th," Macara nodded to B'cyver as the general spoke. "The Cadian 104th, Dramarian 92nd and…"

"Yes?"

"You won't like it." Mk'Fedan said.

"Oh feck, come on and just tell me, sir. Not some arse-licking Ramilliens?"

"No, worse. Those ragged, ill-disciplined 5th Heavies." Mk'Fedan couldn't keep a straight face.

"You bloody beauty!" Macara yelled, punching the air.

"You serve in the Cadian Heavy brigade,"

"Oh. Great." Macara said, Mk'Fedan tempering his good humour.

"And in Tollin's division."

"Oh yay!" Macara's sarcasm was rife.

"At least you got your regiment. I didn't get any of our lads." Bukanan growled in his normal manner, as if it were all he ever did. The low sound emitted from the great beard in a very disconcerting manner.

"At least you will have me in command of your Brigade, general." M'sade said quietly.

"That is the only good thing in this fecked up mess." Bukanan snorted, before realising. "Erm, fecking mess, sir."

The room exploded into laughter at the idea of the fierce man correcting himself over anything.

"Well gentlemen, we have preparations to do. I will see you all later." Mk'Fedan said clearly, and the officer made to leave.

"Well boys, here, we go," B'cyver muttered.

* * *

"Colonel Macara, I do not believe you have a choice. You will hold the left flank of the division in the hab district,"

"But sir, that puts us almost isolated on the end of the entire flank! The closest unit is the Dramarian Brigade holding the suburb area to our own extreme right. There is a two-kilometre gap between us and the other divisions in that sector! If any defence has to be made, or, Emperor forbid, a withdrawal, my force will be isolated and slaughtered." Macara replied defiantly.

"This is an offensive manoeuvre, colonel, not a holding action. You make it sound as if we will have to defend from attack. I doubt we will have to worry about such an eventuality." Tollin laughed, soon followed many of the Cadian and Ramillien officers of the 2nd 'Cadian' division.

"Oh, don't worry, you will." Macara said only loud enough for his own clique to hear. That consisted of himself, B'cyver, Colonel Mc'Caulish of the 1st Cavalry, Lt-colonel Naesmyth of the Dramarian 92nd, Major Cairns and Major Avre, who did not seem to share his brethren's scorn. He had ostracised himself from his own officers to stand with Macara. And Macara respected that immensely.

Mc'Caulish was extremely annoyed. The 1st Household Cavalry had had seven companies removed to defend the factories, leaving him with three in the field. Faulin had done this out of spite towards the Garrowans, apparently giving no second thought to leaving fifteen thousand men with no armour support.

And now Mc'Caulish had only sixty tanks and twenty support vehicles of the four hundred in his regiment. That made him rather dislike Faulin.

They all nodded to Macara's statement. Tollin mistook the gesture for acceptance.

"Very well. Colonel, your brigade will deploy from the lower bridge today at 1300 standard time."

"Yes. Sir." Macara replied coolly. "We shall leave to meet up with our units, general. Good day." The Garrowan rose, a look of disgust evident on his firm features. The other officers of his brigade followed him out of the room as they headed to the PDF barrack's motor pool.

* * *

Their units were stationed only a mile from the bridge, so they would have to make their way there from the main spine headquarters. With airborne transport out of the question, they were resigned to travelling the, slightly, safer road routes that had been cleared by Dramarian and Cadian units only a few days before.

The officers of the brigade arrived in a sectioned-off area where staff cars, cargo-8s and armoured scout cars, about half the mass of a Chimera, sat in wait.

"Do any of you have a problem travelling in a scout car?" Macara asked them.

"I think it's probably a safer option than tabbing out way there, in all honesty, considering the distinctly unfriendly nature of the 'friendly' sectors of this city." Naesmyth replied. The other battalion officers nodded.

"Trooper, could you sign out the use of a car and driver for my brigade please?" Macara called over to the duty Guardsman.

"I can provide a car, sir, but…um…no driver, sir." He returned weakly.

"Just sign out the car. Identification Bravo-niner kappa." The Garrowan grunted. He grabbed the ignition-stick from the clerk-trooper who still sat silently at his desk, going to the nearest scout car and opening the door.

"You must be kidding! It's alright gents, we don't have to worry about the enemy. Daine will kill us with his driving." Cairns laughed. The officers stepped in laughing along.

Macara scoffed "Don't be so silly, major. That's what a batman is for. Corporal Kallum!"

The burly corporal ran from the gatehouse at his colonel's shout.

"Yes, sir?" he asked, saluting.

"You're driving."

"Of course, sir."

"Colonel, may I take my adjutant?" Naesmyth asked.

"Space for ten in here. Pretty sure he can. B'cyver, yours too. Cairns, I would let yours too, except you don't have a proper batman yet." Macara mocked.

The engine revved over Cairns' verbosely rude reply, and the car headed for the gates of the motor pool.

"Eh, corporal, you haven't been drinking have you?" Cairns asked in mock concern as the car hit a bump at speed.

"Me sir? No, sir. I'm just always a bad driver." Kallum replied jovially. The officers laughed, but not all were certain the corporal was joking.

* * *

The noise of battle could be heard from all around, in some places intense and brutal, in others sporadic. The location, atop a hill in the city, brought the noise of conflict from a three hundred and sixty degree area, amplifying and broadcasting it.

In an empty street, a blackened Rhino APC sat hull down in a ruined hab. Around it, shadowy figures watched the side streets, whilst others inside used the vox and monitored traffic.

Across the street, shrouded in a cloak and a doorway, a well-built figure looked out over the western portions of the battle-damaged city.

From the Rhino, another cloaked figure hurried across the street, flinching every time a shell burst was heard, or if an Earthshaker round caused the ground to vibrate.

"My lord Kopar, the Legion has formed up and seems to have moved against the Guard forces. Faulin and his troops are, as yet, unaware of this development, or their exact nature." The cloaked acolyte spoke quietly. "The guardsmen holding the Warehouse Sector have the area well defended, but have not garrisoned the Basilica in force."

In the shadows of the alcove, the even more shadowy figure muttered a stern reply.

"Good. Move to the cathedral as soon as we have a clear route."

"Yes, Inquisitor," the hooded acolyte bowed low, then dashed away into the grim, shelled streets of the city, again flinching until cover was reached.

Kopar put a magnocular to his already enhanced eye-sight, and in the distance he could pick out the looming, graceful shape of the Cathedral Basilica. It stood out amongst the damaged habs and warehouses, miraculously unscathed.

"Soon." Inquisitor Kopar muttered. "Soon."

* * *

They passed by men and tanks in their hundreds, heading to or from units. There were ambulance-marked cargo 8s, columns of tired, dirty soldiers falling back, with clean, grim-faced guardsmen moving up to replace them. All along the strength of roadway, broken and burnt civilian vehicles lay in piles that had been pushed to the side of the thoroughfare.

The group of officers spoke at the state of the command situation, none going as far as to make any actual mutinous comments, but all realised that there were better choices for command. As they drove, the numbers of troops grew thinner, as they approached the area between divisions. Rubble and damage was greater here, and corpses of habbers and guardsmen lay everywhere.

"Typical that we get placed at the furthest end of the line," Mc'Caulish muttered.

"You would moan if we were too close, too." Cairns smiled.

"Yes, major, I would. I'm a tanker. We're meant to be right in the middle of the action." Mc'Caulish gave a fierce grin.

As Kallum drove the scout car, he noticed that a section of the highway ahead had collapsed, due no doubt to a previous bombardment.

"Sir, I'm going to have to take her into the city streets until I can find an on-ramp past the damaged section." Kallum called from the drivers' compartment. "We have men stationed on the highway, nearby, but not in this section of the city itself."

"Okay corporal." Macara shouted.

Outside, nothing moved except the scout car. No habbers, no Imperials, no enemy.

Nothing.

"Kallum, speed up a bit. I want us back on the highway."

The bluff corporal didn't reply, just nodded and gunned the engines even more. The scout car sped on.

"What's wrong, Macara?" Avre asked seriously.

"I'm not sure it's safe here."

"Well, the Ramillien PDF is meant to have secured the area." Naesmyth said quietly.

Cairns snarled "I think that's what Daine means,"

"Surely you don't think the cultists would be crazy enough to cause trouble this close to our lines after the PDF engagements?" B'cyver asked.

"I think they would do anything to disrupt our lines of communications. And I also think they are mad enough." Macara followed up simply.

The officer looked silently through the small view slits in the armour.

"Anyway, what are your thoughts on our disposition?" Macara asked out loud the question they had all held-back since leaving the main spine.

"Absolute crap. We will be cut off if the enemy makes a strong enough push along our whole front. With at least two miles between us and our nearest back-up, a dedicated force could push through the gap and roll along our lines." B'cyver said scornfully.

"I agree with the colonel," Avre said.

"Our positions could have been far better…" Naesmyth continued his own quiet rant.

"Far better." Cairns added, drawing glances. "I'm just saying."

"And I agree wholeheartedly. Is there any man here who believes we will be on the offensive for long? Or that we won't suffer large casualties doing our duty for Faulin?" Macara asked pointedly.

Naesmyth replied, voice still low, as if it were his only tone of voice. "I would hope that our men could defeat the enemy in this sort of action. I am not, however, stupid enough to think that we can prevail against such numbers with this sort of deployment."

"It goes against all the tactical thinking we have ever been taught!" Avre joined in quietly.

"You bet it does." Cairns said in his normal jovial/scornful manner. Mc'Caulish sat in gloomy silence, taking in everything being said but making no further contributions.

"Well, now, gentlemen, maybe we should stop for the moment. He is a Lord General and we are bordering on Heresy. Let's concentrate on the matter at hand." Macara finished the conversation, realising that starting it had been irresponsible of him. The men sat in silence for a while, just staring at the broken buildings from the narrow window-slits. After several minutes, Avre spoke up.

"This isn't right. Why is there no one ou…."

"Krak rocket!" Naesmyth bellowed, proving he did have a voice. The scout car made a sharp right turn to avoid the incoming missile, Kallum's reactions faster than Macara would have thought possible in a vehicle that size.

The projectile missed the hull, but hit under the left-front wheel. In a shower of debris and plascrete, the armoured car flipped from the concussive force, and at speed rolled along another twenty metres.

Metal screeched with impact force, and the small gun turret snapped out of its ring. The vehicle came to a stop in an almost upright position. The whole car was lopsided however, as a large portion of the rear end was now a gaping hole. Smoke poured from the engine. Bullets and las shots pinged off the armour.

Inside, the officers groaned. The Dramarian aide was lying, unmoving, his head caved in by a large bracket that had formerly held his seat in place. The contents of his skull now decorated the floor and part of Cairn's left leg.

Avre was groaning, sporting a long, deep gash along the length of his left forearm.

"Damn. Ev…everyone out, now!" Macara coughed. He kicked the door closest to him, but it didn't budge. He looked to see which men were fully aware of the situation.

"B'cyver, help me here!" the Garrowan barked. Still reeling, the Thoran colonel wriggled over and joined him in kicking the damaged side-hatch. It still wouldn't move.

The las-fire, however, stopped.

"They've stopped. Could we use that side?"

"We'd never get out that side. They're waiting for us to try." Naesmyth grunted, in case Avre had decided on trying to get out that way.

"Here man, help us!" Macara shouted. Naesmyth and the Thoran adjutant, Fermana, added their boots to those crashing on the inside of the damaged door.

"It won't budge sir!" the Thoran corporal cried.

"Keep trying!" B'cyver urged. Avre and Cairns had started to fire their pistols out of the damaged section of armour, where the gash was about a foot wide. They snapped shots off towards the source of the enemy fire.

""Hurry, sir! They've got another krak launcher!" Cairns called. The five men pounding the door stopped abruptly. There was the sound of las-fire outside the safe door and shots on the locking mechanism.

Macara drew his side arm. Cairns and Naesmyth followed suite, and the Thoran adjutant scrambled round the floor of the damaged vehicle. Mc'Caulish drew his combat knife, his pistol lost in the violence of the crash.

"Here sir!" Fermana called, throwing Macara one of two lasrifles he had prised from their rack underneath the seats.

"Any power-cells?" the colonel barked.

"Only the ones in them, sir." Fermana replied grimly. Mc'Caulish reached for Macara's side arm as the infantry colonel, easily the better shot with an infantryman's weapon, checked the sights on the weapon.

There was a trio of dull, metallic thuds on the safe side door. All inside the vehicle tensed up, triggers tightening on triggers.

"Steady…" Macara growled as they all aimed towards the door.

A gust of cool air swept through the armoured car, and the bulky frame of Corporal Kallum was shadowed outside, lascarbine in one hand, bent crowbar in the other. In the excitement, Macara had forgotten the corporal stuck in the partitioned drivers section.

"I'd be getting out now, sirs, if I were you." He said in a tone-of-voice that did not reflect the fact there was a hail of las-fire peppering the air around him.

The officers scrambled out, keeping low and using the vehicle's hull for cover. They looked around, watching for flankers as they all filed out, Avre cradling his wounded arm.

"Okay, we have enemy fire coming in from at least three positions. We have three lasrifles and four pistols. I guess there are about ten shooters…"

"Seventeen. Definitely." Mc'Caulish stated, interrupting Macara.

"You sure?" Naesmyth asked. Mc'Caulish just cocked an eyebrow.

"The Colonel is awfully good at estimating enemy numbers from muzzle flashes, being an armour colonel. I'd trust his guess before my own." Macara always used Mc'Caulish rank when addressing him. Despite having command over him, Macara thought that the older, far more experienced man deserved that respect. "So, seventeen enemy, with lasguns and at least one krak launcher, in the large building directly opposite us on two floors." He looked again to Mc'Caulish, who nodded.

"How are we going to get out?" Avre asked through gritted teeth as Fermana tied a field dressing from the car tightly to his arm.

"Here's how we do it. Two of us run to that building," Macara pointed forty metres to the left. "The others provide cover fire on the larger building, the one with the damage Aquila across the doors. Now, after those two move across, a third man will appear at the left side of the armoured car before ducking back. They will, hopefully, be expecting us to go for that route a second time. So three will advance to the building on the right, where there are…" Macara nodded to Mc'Caulish

"Three."

"Three gunmen. Again, those left will provide cover fire." The others all nodded their understanding. "Those five will move round the cultist positions and catch them in the rearm establish some good enfilades. The remaining three will stay here and continue giving cover fire."

"Who stays?" Naesmyth asked.

"We send one rifleman in each group, giving some heavy hitting power to the fireteams. If they have seventeen men, then five of us with pistols, even flanking, will have a damned hard time. Send Kallum with the group of two. I will stay here with the Thoran trooper and Avre." Mc'Caulish suggested.

"Okay, we'll go with that. Kallum and Naesmyth, get ready to break for the left hand side. Everyone else, cover on my mark," Macara looked round as everyone checked their weapons. "Ready, three, two, one…mark!" he called. The officers opened fire, Imperial las peppering the walls and windowsills of the larger building. The cultists, evidently not trained soldiers, ducked back from the sudden fusillade, only a couple of them snapping off nervous return shots. Kallum and Naesmyth ran as if the very daemons of the warp were behind them. Within five seconds they slammed into cover, disappearing from sight.

As Macara and the others ducked behind the scout car again, the cultists regained their firing positions and returned the favour.

"Cairns, B'cyver, Corporal, get ready to move. The colonel and I will cover you." Macara said, swapping himself for Fermana. It wasn't due to any aversion to charging into the building, it was simple smart delegation. The corporal was still a line trooper, with more experience in room clearance than the colonel, whose skills lay more at regimental command than fireteam skills now.

Macara and Mc'Caulish opened fire again, Avre also leaning out to snap off a few shots, although his face was pale from blood loss and pinched tight with pain. The frontage of the building splintered at the damage, chips of rockcrete flying through the air. The damaged Imperial Aquila lost one of its twin heads to a glancing las-shot.

Cultists ducked back, but more stayed to fire, anticipating anther dash to the left. A krak rocket sped into the gap that Kallum and Naesmyth had just cleared. When the smoke cleared and there were no bodies, the cultists reloaded to take another shot at the scout car, not happy with their victory over the innocent plascrete.

The men noticed three figures running to the right, blasting the façade of the smaller building they ran to. The man with the launcher leaned further out the window to make the most of his shot, knowing that without a frag rocket his shot would need to be far more accurate.

Yelling in triumph, his finger tightened on the firing-spoon on the battered old launcher, a millisecond before a loud crack broke the back of his skull open as Mc'Caulish made an amazingly lucky shot. As the body fell back into the room from the windowsill, the nerve contractions jerked the crude trigger, and the rocket struck the ceiling, killing the other two cultists stationed there.

"Brilliant shot sir!" Macara shouted. The three men continued their barrage as B'cyver's group reached their target building.

* * *

"The building is just ahead, a few paces to our left, right of the target building. We won't need to go through the front, the side and back is blown out," he pointed to the other men. They had a perfect defilade on the cultist positions as they advanced from where they had gone to ground.

"How many of them are left sir?" Fermana asked.

"I saw three at least who could not have lived."

"So at least thirteen left, if the old man's estimate was right," Cairns grinned grimly. "If we hit them at the same time as Kallum and Naesmyth we could completely disrupt them."

"Okay, move round to the back and try and catch his attention." B'cyver replied with a nod. Silently, the three men moved on.

* * *

Naesmyth and Kallum moved through the broken habs, coming round the back of the blown out building. Kallum noticed some movement, figures across the rubble. One was waving.

"Colonel, sir look." He pointed.

"Is it the others?"

"Yes, sir. I think the Thoran colonel is signalling us to wait."

"He wants to hit them at the same time. We need to let them get in a position to see the whole lot first." Naesmyth said, recognising the Guard-standard hand-signals, used when audible comms were not possible.

Kallum smiled fiercely. "Sounds good to me, sir."

"You a good shot with a rifle, corporal?" Naesmyth asked, suddenly.

The big corporal actually chuckled lowly. "Not bad, sir, not bad."

"See that cultist there? He seems to be directing them. Take him first. Should have the others running around like mad."

"That sounds like a good idea too, sir. So it does." Kallum replied, easing forward into a better position, big hands gripping the carbine tightly.

* * *

"Hurry up, you lazy bastards," Mc'Caulish snapped as he sat with his back against the scout car. Macara, Avre and the old colonel had expended all their ammunition and were resigned to hiding from the enemy's firing.

The cultists stopped firing, but Macara could still see them moving about.

"Come on, Cairns, what's taking so long?" he hissed. Surely the enfilading group should be there now?

"There, look." Mc'Caulish pointed to a street behind them where a platoon of Cadian shock troops was advancing towards them, obviously drawn there by the firefight, heedless of the danger they now walked into. The angle of the broken armoured car kept Macara and the other two officers oblique to them, hidden.

"Go back!" Macara shouted. "It's not safe!"

The Cadians may have heard him, but, unable to see him, they advanced onward, marching to their deaths.

"Oh, balls. Screw this," Mc'Caulish said, running out from cover towards them. "Get back, you bloody fools! Get back!"

Macara looked at the colonel, nearly going into heart failure at the display of casual bravery.

"Mc'Caulish! Get back here!" he yelled. He got up and started to run after him, to try and get him into cover.

It was then that the other five Imperials made their move.

* * *

"Now!" Naesmyth yelled. Kallum downed his target with a single shot to the back of the head. Less than a heartbeat later, the four officers opened fire themselves. Seven cultists fell in as many second. The others turned to see their unexpected attackers.

Kallum shot one who was still firing out of the forward facing windows. The cultist managed a single further shot before falling backwards. The other cultists turned and fled after the loss of so many comrades and their erstwhile leader, but as the archenemy fanatics dashed from the rubble of the broken rooms, they ran straight into the fire of the five enfilading men, who used this easy chance to finish them off quickly. Sharp, tight bursts of fire drilled into the chaos followers, pulping torsos, exploding limbs and shattering bones in a flurry of bloodletting.

"Alright boys, up and at them! Let's go!" B'cyver shouted. One by one they got up and ran through the remains of the hab, not even giving the cultist corpses a second glance.

As they arrived at the front, a squad of Cadians was securing the area. Avre was being seen to by a corpsman. Macara stood by a second medic, who was crouched over the prone form of Mc'Caulish.

"Oh shit," Cairns barked before sprinting over to him. He skidded to a halt beside the old man. "What happened?" he asked, face ashen.

"He walked into the open, so that the Cadians wouldn't walk into a trap. One of the cultists started firing, but missed every shot. When you attacked, he let off a last round before turning away from the window. The shot ricocheted off of the scout car and caught him in the small of the back." Macara said in a rage. Cairns looked at the blood on the ground and the charred hole in Mc'Caulish's back. The fused mess of bone and cartilage was mixed with the man's lifeblood, and visible to the open air. There was no moving from his chest, no rising and falling of breath. As an armour officer, he didn't wear any of the carapace armour the Garrowan Heavies did. If he had, the shot would have most like thrown him to the ground, nothing worse. But instead, the valiant old soldier lay dead in a puddle of his own blood. It was a hard death to accept. An unfair death even.

"Did he die…quickly?" Cairns asked quietly.

"The second it hit him." Macara replied. "Wrap him in a sheet. Take him back to HQ." the colonel spoke to the corpsman this time.

"Aye, sir." The Cadian stood and replied. Macara reached into Mc'Caulish's collar and took his tags, before he stood himself, rubbing his face with his hands.

"Okay, we need to move on." He said grimly. "We need transport."

"Daine, you can't leave the Colonel with those Cadians!" Cairn barked in shock.

"We have no choice, Major! Our troops advance in a couple of hours. They can't go into action without their officers." Macara snarled, taking his major, and friend, by surprise. He thought for a moment, seeing Cairns hurt expression. "You go with him. Get a transport and follow us after you've got him to our medics. Mk'Fedan wouldn't want it any other way."

"Yes, sir." Cairns said sadly. It was obvious to the officers of the other regiments that Macara and Cairns had been good friends with the grizzled Tanker. B'cyver took the initiative.

"Get us transport, and one for the major, vox-officer." B'cyver said to a Cadian soldier.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Just do it, you kec." B'cyver snapped angrily.

"Yes sir," the vox-man hurried away.

In the ruins of the hab district, amongst the smoke and bodies, the officers of Macara's brigade sat awaiting their transport, a heavy air of melancholy quickly setting in, and hanging above them, a true hero wrapped up on the ground. Macara looked at the tags in his hand, one with the twin-mountains and shield icon of Garrowa, crested with a keening two-headed Imperial Eagle. The other had all of Mc'Caulish's details; day of his birth, blood type, regiment, ranks and even, scratched in by the old colonel's own hand, the name of his own tank. Macara shook his head gently, before leaning back and falling asleep as the adrenaline left him and fatigue took over.


	7. Chapter 6

_There was nothing on the planet for miles and miles. Just dust, and wind, and a dead black sky._

_Macara looked around in horror. Dust and wind, dust and wind._

_Macara ran for what seemed an eon, trying to find something, some landmark. There was none. Macara tried to shout, but no sound emanated from his throat._

_He walked on and on, leaving tracks in the dust that faded away in instant._

_As he walked, he saw a green glow on the horizon, and he trudged onward towards it._

_He ate up the miles, and he felt like he had walked for an eternity, and yet for no time at all. He tried to call out again, but nothing issued forth._

_He came upon the green glow and stopped, terror gripping tight._

_There was a large black pyramid, surmounted by a glowing green crystal. Green veins of energy flowed down the sides of this monument. Walking into its gaping entrance, he could just see emaciated figures, shackled to one another, wandering in. Nothing came from the edifice._

_But it was not the pyramid that scared him so. It was the two mountain peaks flanking it that terrified him._

_Anu Beig and Anu Ainir, the mountains of Gateway Pass. But only the top hundred or so metres were visible…the rest lay beneath the dust and wind._

_Macara started in mute terror, rooted to the spot. It couldn't be. It couldn't!_

_Macara screamed into the dusty air in raw terror and disbelief, and didn't notice the metallic, skeletal hand that burst from the ground and seized his leg…_

* * *

"Brigade, attention!" Sergeant-Major Mk'Askill bellowed through the vox mic. In one deft movement, the eighteen thousand men under Macara's makeshift command snapped alert and straight. And snapped Macara back into the present. He looked around, blinking. No sign of mountains. No dust. Just the men under his command.

Dramarians stood in their khaki fatigues and forest-green chestplates, wide brimmed steel helmets worn at jaunty angles. The Thoran Bravers of the 67th wore an urban-grey set of camouflage fatigues. Light flack-jackets of deepest blue-grey covered those uniforms. He glanced proudly at his Garrowans in grey cloth and crimson armaplas battle-plate, blue stripe worn proudly on their helmets.

Finally he looked over at the Cadians in their light-khaki and olive uniforms, their weapons shouldered. They looked every inch the hardened, tough soldiers their reputation said they were. Whether that was true or not would have to be tested in battle.

Mk'Askill looked expectantly at his colonel, waiting for him to speak. He could see Macara was still pale. The colonel looked back and gave a small smile, before switching his micro-bead to project his voice from the nearby vox-caster.

"Thorans, Dramarians, Cadians, Garrowans. You are all men of humanity. Men of the Emperor. We have been given a mission, to clear sector 5-gamma-7 of the enemy. We will do our duty and not shirk our responsibilities. We will fight for those who cannot fight, defend His realm and not allow the treacherous scum of Chaos to hold us back! The Emperor Protects!" Macara bellowed. The men around him cheered. He always knew he could do a devotional speech as well as any trigger-happy commissar.

The senior officers beside him nodded in agreement with his sentiments, jaws set firm and determined as Macara addressed them.

"Okay gentlemen, to your regiments. We have to move out, get in this stupid line-abreast deployment that Faulin thinks will be so successful. It will be tough going, but that is the way of it. Good luck, gentlemen."

Avre, B'cyver and Naesmyth nodded and walked off to their respective units. Cairns had not returned yet, so Macara would take command of the 5th himself, for the time being. The final battalion officer walked up to him.

Major Mk'Rae, promoted from captain after the actions on Cadia, now had command of the 1st Household Cavalry. He had shared every battle on that planet with Macara and the 5th, their respective units saving each other on numerous occasions. Macara knew he was a good replacement for Mc'Caulish. As good as any man could be compared to the old tanker.

"Thank you for the opportunity, sir." He said in his sharp, low timbre.

"We all miss Mc'Caulish already. He was a great commander. But I wouldn't have given you this command if I didn't think you would be every bit as skilled as he was." Macara replied gently. Major Mk'Rae had, over the last two and a-half-hours objected to his promotion three times, once in writing. Macara had ripped up the protest, telling the major he would be fine.

"And you can't do a worse job of battalion command than Cairns." He had said, trying to keep the younger majors morale up. Reluctantly, Mk'Rae had thus accepted the command, determined to do his best in place of his old colonel.

Macara watched as his men all formed properly into their units for the march. They were to proceed over the bridge before forming into the long line of attack. Climbing aboard his command Salamander, Macara called out to his troopers again.

"Mount up, form and move out!" he shouted, sweeping his arm forward in suitable dramatics. The Salamander, flanked by two tanks of the 1st moved off, followed closely by the 67th Thorans. The 92nd came after them, helmets still at the jaunty angle, followed by another forty six tanks of the Household Cavalry. The 104th Cadian came behind the armour. The twenty support vehicles followed the grim Cadians, finally followed by the last few Leman Russ and the Fighting Fifth. It took them all seventeen minutes to cross the bridge due to the number of men and machines crossing it. Macara looked at the tanks beside his salamander. One was a Demolisher pattern called the Lionheart by the writing on the side panels. The other tank, Macara knew, was Mk'Rae's command tank. It was named the Son of a Bitch and the familiar hull, scars and all, made the colonel feel safer just from it being at his side again. Despite serving in different divisions, never mind brigades, in the Garrowan establishment, they had often fought in the same theatres, supporting each other. It seemed to be the lot of their regiments to be in the thickest of the fighting due to their steadfast reputations. Macara's heart leapt when he thought that the Son of a Bitch and sixty of its brethren were under his command now. A broad grin split his weathered face. They may be going into enemy territory outnumbered and unaware of enemy strength, but they would give them a bloody nose. They would not let the forces of the Archenemy take them without one hell of a fight.

* * *

"Have you managed to decipher the activation system yet?" Kopar asked a nervous tech-priest. It was dark in the vaults, and shadows played across the basalt-relief statues of long-dead heroes.

"Not yet, Inquisitor. It has an extremely complicated code variation system. It will take me at least a week to have it broken." The tech-priest replied, a slight reluctance detectable in his machine-cant tainted voice.

"You realise that a week from now, our forces will have passed us by, and most likely have been destroyed by the Archenemy host that lies in wait? We need this code deciphered before that happens. The only way to find out if the…STC…is in the city, is to crack that code. If you do not think you can do it, I shall find another willing servant of the Machine-god to assist me." The Inquisitor could barely contain his anger. He had spoken of an STC, or standard template construct, which was one of the most important finds anyone could make in these dark days. They granted access to long-lost technologies from the Imperium's past.

"I will have all the resources I possess on the task, inquisitor." The tech-priest said desperately.

The adepts of the Mechanicus would never allow such data and discoveries to slip by them.

"See that you do, or it will be you that pays the price for the loss of such knowledge." The shadowy Inquisitor ended the conversation as he swept round and thundered away.

* * *

"Damn it, where are they?" Cairns said. For the last three hours, not a single enemy had been seen. Cairns had arrived back, almost half an hour ago, to his unit as they crossed the bridge. They had only travelled nine kilometres, because of the constant stop-checks of surrounding building for any signs of the enemy. Two and a half hours and not even a sight of the million or so cultists supposedly in the city.

"It's strange that we can't find a damned thing. Our men have cleared every building we've entered. And now, with our forces strung out, would be a great time for the enemy to hit us with everything they have. I'm worried." Cairns continued. "Just look, we're not even in this damned 'offensive line' formation -"

"This line formation is certainly offensive to me…" Macara muttered, interrupting. "Sorry."

"Well, we're not even in the formation Faulin wanted, not a single brigade. We're just spread through the ruins and hab districts."

"I know what you mean. Stay alert, major. There is every chance they will mount an attack. The battalion is yours again Faolan, I'm going to check on B'cyver's position." Macara replied with false enthusiasm, trying to keep Cairns mood lightened. He checked his sidearm before hopping off the back of the command Salamander that was slowly ploughing along. Cairns tried to tell him to stop, not to run off alone, but Macara was away from earshot before he could manage.

"Sergeant Nolcol, take your squad and follow the colonel. Don't let him get into too much trouble." The major bellowed at a nearby Light Coy sergeant. The NCO nodded and called to his section.

"Okay, you slack jawed maggots, let's move!" he called, moving his hand in a chopping motion in the direction Macara had run off in.

Cairns watched a moment more before lifting his vox. "Alright, let's have a sweep of the nearest hab blocks. By the numbers please."

* * *

The Thoran regiment were on the far right flank of the brigade. On the 5th's left were the 92nd Dramarian, and between the 67th and the Garrowans was the 104th Cadian regiment. The Cadians wore the same temperate uniform of all Cadian forces. Like most Guard regiments, the Cadians would happily change their uniform dependent on the terrain. However, on this campaign they wore their famous Green and khaki uniform instead of more appropriate urban garb. Off-world DPM was not necessary during the Black Crusade, and so production had only just started again.

Macara walked along their line, in plain sight, so no one took him for an enemy and provided him with an extra orifice.

"Sir! Sir, please, wait!" a Garrowan sergeant shouted on him as he ran, a squad of men in trail.

"Sergeant Nolcol, what are you doing?"

"The major told me to escort you to the Thoran lines." He replied.

"I'm sure I'll be okay, sergeant."

"Well, it is half a kilometre to the flanks of Colonel B'cyver's position, sir. You don't know what's out there." Nolcol sighed. He had been given an order, and he took it seriously.

Macara paused for a moment. "Good point sergeant. Okay, follow me." The colonel finished. He turned and continued on, passing the Cadians who were moving expertly from cover to cover, clearing buildings and proceeding like veteran troopers, not the raw infantry they really were.

Normally, any Cadian unit in the field would operate and fight at a competent and veteran level, above what most other Guard regiments could aspire to. All Cadian youths spent some time in their conscript units, and could strip and reassemble a lasgun by the time they were ten. They fought against Chaos cultists on a regular basis, so that all Cadian regiments had some level of combat experience. The recent, massive battles against chaos during the Black Crusade had made many hundreds of thousands of Cadians into hardened veterans.

It had also claimed the lives of many, and those who normally would have had a normal training period and low-level combat experience to break them in were either still in regiments clearing their world of the enemy, or were now highly inexperienced and raw. These men were some of the very few from Cadia who could not boast plentiful experience. They were those who had been sent, perhaps prematurely, to replace the dead of the shock troop regiments.

But Macara's men didn't like the Cadians. Although Avre was a good commander, a handful of his officers and many of his junior officers were of the same mind as Faulin. The troopers were indifferent, most likely, but in the world of military units, soldiers form an opinion of a battalion by its officers if they had not seen them in battle.

"Sergeant, take that look off your face. The men of the 104th are loyal soldiers of the Emperor. You didn't mind the 23rd, did you?" Macara said bluntly.

"Aye, but they was real soldiers, sir. They fought hard and died hard, like them Adriannan boys. And the 23rd didn't mind getting their hands dirty with us." The bluff sergeant grunted.

"The 104th fought at the gate, too. That's how they lost most of their veteran troops." Macara sighed. "They have almost as many honours as we do."

"They don't have this, sir." Nolcol tapped the blue stripe on his grey helmet.

"No one does, sergeant." Macara smiled back. That stripe was their honour, their privilege to bear the colours of the Space Marines. "Look, it's their officers, not their men. The Cadians, apparently, requested to fight with us," the white lie rolled off Macara's tongue easily enough. It wasn't a harmful lie, but may just spread a sense of good feeling from this Light Coy squad through the whole battalion.

"Well, at least they got themselves some brains, sir." Nolcol said. It was the best that Macara could get at the moment, but it was evident the bluff sergeant was revising his opinions.

"Colonel!" a voice called from the Cadian lines. Macara and his squad stopped and watched Avre approaching with his command retinue.

"Well met, major." Macara nodded pleasantly. The Cadian officer saluted as he came to a stop in front of the taller Garrowan. His left arm was still stiff, the sleeve of his fatigue jacket bulked out by bandages.

One of the lieutenants accompanying Avre scowled at the show of respect. The frown grew when Avre shook hands with Macara. The Cadian Major noticed Macara's hackles rise slightly, and turned to see the young officer.

"Take the scowl off your face, Faulin." Avre ordered. The lieutenant let his face relax, more or less, but anger burned in his eyes. "Off and tell Nineteen Squad to clear the habs behind the ruined shopping street."

"Sir? They still have vox link…" Faulin replied sharply.

"Just do it, mister Faulin. The exercise will do you good."

"Sir." Faulin stomped away like a petulant child. As soon as he was out of earshot, Macara piped up.

"Faulin? Surely you're not telling me that chinless wonder has sprogs?"

"Not son. Nephew." Avre replied. "He got his commission due to his uncle's rank. He is a real pile of grox manure." The major spoke quietly, so his men didn't hear him and thus undermine another officer's authority.

"As long as he fights well when the time comes." Macara pointed out, never one to let a relations'actions unfairly tar another.

"I suppose you're right sir. Now, more importantly, what are you up to sneaking behind my regiment?"

Macara pointed. "I'm heading about half a K that direction."

"Ah, checking the Thorans." Avre deduced, secretly glad Macara wasn't here to supervise his rookie command.

"I want to speak to B'cyver, face to face. This is too unusual, especially when the city is reportedly crawling with the enemy." Macara said simply.

"Fair enough, sir. If possible, could you relay details of what is said on your way back, please? I don't want to seem presumptuous, but it makes it easier to command my men if I am in the loop."

The Garrowan colonel nodded. "Of course, major. I have no problem with my field officers knowing the situation. Carry on major, I shall report to you later."

Avre saluted again and Macara waved his squad to move ahead.

They continued at a brisk pace, leaving the Cadians behind them. Macara noted that the members of the Light Coy were at risk of leaving him behind. He was fit, strong and had good stamina, but like all light troops, these men were the smallest, smartest and quickest in the Garrowan units. Their natural quick pace was better than his.

Within a few minutes they had come in sight of the Thoran Bravers. Their dark grey camouflage matched well with the surrounding habs. Macara noticed they all wore matt-black field-caps, and not helmets. They were also carefully clearing each building in their path, just as the Garrowans had. He could see their black armoured torsos moving in tight, well drilled groups. Colonel B'cyver could be made out a fair distance away, pointing at habs and directing squads. Macara pressed the mic of his micro-bead vox.

"Colonel, look to your seven o'clock position, about one hundred metres back."

B'cyver looked round, a grin splitting his face. He raised a hand in greeting.

And as he did so, all hell erupted.

* * *

Kopar stood in the main body of the basilica cathedral itself. His assassin was nearby somewhere, skulking in the shadows, watching over his person. Her presence, as off-putting as it could be, especially her malign intent pressing on his psyche, was also reassuring; more so than an entire platoon of Guardsmen. His numerous acolytes, attired similarly to himself, only with beetle-blue carapace armour protecting them, went to and fro, completing assigned tasks. None came within fifty metres of him whilst he contemplated. At the entrances, Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, hellguns primed, stood scanning the ruins for movement. Kopar had eighteen of them seconded to him, completely loyal, and completely unaware of what he was doing here. In groups of three, each demi-unit was led by one of his acolytes.

Inside, his lexmechanics assisted the Techpriest trying to decrypt the machine in the vaults. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone at this moment. He looked at the grand architecture around him, and felt stirrings of genuine disappointment that it would all probably be destroyed when Chaos took the place from the Imperials. But, in the grand scheme of things, it mattered little.

It was strange, Kopar thought, that they weren't fighting yet. The Imperial forces were on the move, and had driven off some pitiful cultist forces, but that was it. Why had they not made contact with the Chaos legions?

A sudden boom, and string of gunfire in the near-distance cut into his thoughts.

"My lord, movement. At the front of the basilica," the senior sergeant of the Stormtroopers called.

"Get a squad over there, then." Let no one enter." The Inquisitor replied.

"As you command, lord." The sergeant saluted, running for the doors an instant later. Seven troopers went with him, and three of the blue-armoured acolytes, swords drawn and a variety of small arms on display.

Kopar realised that his small retinue, no more than thirty five strong, had to hold off a city full of enemies until the Guard could push their way to him. Mentally, he unlocked the part of his mind that could psykically unleash all manner of pain on an enemy.

* * *

Macara ducked as a bolt round blew the head clean off the trooper next to him, blood mist coating the men nearby.

Since when did cultist have boltguns? He thought. Looking over the line of rubble his squad now occupied, he let off a pair of shots from his own bolt pistol. Lasfire began to fill the air with renewed fury. Imperial officers called orders to their men. Units dived into cover, before replying with hastily aimed shots. It seemed the enemy was all around them. The Thoran Bravers managed to get several heavy weapons up and ready, though numerous crew-served weapons lost their gunners in the opening volleys.

"Make your shots count lads. Keep watching the nearest buildings, they're close enough for that scum to rush us if they want." Macara told his ten man section. The Garrowans were in an effective defensive position, facing several directions with cover on their side. Whenever they saw a muzzle flash, they returned fire, saving shots for when the enemy actually presented themselves. Archenemy fire increased, but as of yet, they couldn't see any of the shooters. Buildings all around seemed to be raining energy rounds into them.

Thorans all along the line were advancing carefully, covering each other, trying to break into the habs round about them. B'cyver was leading from the front, shouting his men on to glory. The squads with him were assaulting a building directly in front of them, whilst on their left, a platoon-sized group had broken into a short row of shops and were clearing the enemy out with brutal close quarter fighting.

A trio of rockets smashed in some low-built habs more to the right flank of Macara's position, and several enemy corpses fell bloodily to the road. A guardsman with a grenade launcher pumped rounds into one of the doorways and instant after the explosions, a dozen Thorans went in.

Macara saw movement from the building B'cyver was assaulting. It was a well-built commerce station, used by guilders in the local area as a sort of trade house. The Aquila above the door was damaged. From the wide, double doors, made of finely inlaid heavy timbers, soldiers of Chaos poured out to counter attack. They opened fire with autoguns, lasguns, the odd bolter, any weapon they could muster. Several Thorans fell almost straight away, but without flinching, they fixed bayonets and B'cyver led them in a charge, sabre drawn. The two groups smashed into each other, weapons scything, close-range fire killing men with every burst. The Bravers were outnumbered, but their sudden charge had the Chaos soldiers reeling. A Thoran stabbed once with his bayonet, taking a chaos soldier in the chest below his armour. A cultist who would have made corporal Kallum look small used a billhook like a great hatchet and almost split a Brave from clavicle to pelvis before three more Thorans dragged him down, stabbing repeatedly. B'cyver twirled his blade in deadly arks, cutting down cultist with every blow.

"Sir!" Nolcol shouted, pointing. Macara saw another party of cultists bounding across the debris and bodies to enter the fray. With their flanking attack, there was no way B'cyver's mad charge could hold.

"Take them now!" the Garrowan called in his own tongue, the guttural words as fierce as those of the enemy. Hellguns snapped to point where he directed, the Garrowans rose from their cover and opened fire. High powered shots cracked with a staccato bark, dropping numerous cultists, the men taken totally unawares. The deeper snap-hiss coughs of the lasguns punctuated the sound of the nine hellguns.

Macara's men advanced step by step as they fired, a few rounds being hastily shot in their direction but causing no harm.

"Keep it up, boys!" Nolcol shouted.

With the flank secure, B'cyver's men drove the surviving cultists diving back into the commerce building and scattering to the other entrances.

"Clear the rooms and secure your flank!" B'cyver said into his micro-bead as his men dashed past in twos and threes, going different directions as they entered the damaged doors.

"Third squad, move into the…" B'cyver was drowned out by the roar of air hurtling past, and then thrown a full five metres by the blast as a battlecannon shell destroyed the front of the commerce building. Pieces of timber and plascrete pattered to the ground. The Thoran colonel wasn't moving. A dozen troopers around him were dead, killed by the blast, or their innards turned to jelly by the concussive force.

A tank drove into view, armour painted in a light khaki shade with black detailing. It resembled a Leman Russ, but its track sections were longer and squatter. The barrel was not as wide as the noble Leman Russ, but had more length. It lumbered towards the Thoran positions, coaxial weapons firing. Sponsons equipped with heavy bolters spat death at the guardsmen. And following the tanks regrouped cultists taking heart from the great, heavily armoured machine, advanced on the fallen B'cyver and his stunned men.

Macara looked over at B'cyver's position and saw the havoc caused. Thorans fell back in disorder as the tank advanced, cultists all around it's heavily armoured flanks. Fighting could again be heard in the remains of the commerce station. B'cyver's entire position was looking threatened by the sudden reversal.

Macara saw the cultists driving the Thorans back. He saw the Thoran Bravers flooding back from the onslaught. He saw it all and took it all in.

"Set vox to speaker," Macara muttered as he drew his sword and flicked the power on.

"Men of Thora! Bravers! Rally and repulse! Colonel B'cyver is down and needs your help! Move on his position!" Macara cried, voice augmented by the comm's officer's vox-pack. There was a rasp of steel as his own men drew and fixed their seventeen inch blades to their hellguns and stood ready. "Bravers, forward!" Macara called, charging forward with his Garrowan squad, who screamed in fury as if their hill-Gods could hear them and help them on.

As he ran, Bravers joined him in dribs and drabs, crying their own war-cries. It was a good eighty metres to the front of the Broken commerce house, but they closed the gap quickly. Most of the Thoran troopers had stopped their flight and joined the counter attack.

With only a few steps to go, Macara bellowed "For Garrowa and the Black Blade!"

* * *

Both forces reached the building at the same time, just as B'cyver was coming to. The clash was even fiercer than the Thoran's only minutes earlier, as men fought desperately, clawing and hacking at anything not in their uniforms. Macara ducked beneath a bayonet thrust, slicing upwards with his power-sabre. Weapon still inside his enemy, he rolled right, bruising his shoulder, avoiding the downward chop of a machete. As the colonel rose, he punched the cultist in the face with the muzzle of his bolt pistol before countering with another sword thrust. He fired the last of his clip into the broiling knot of Chaos foot soldiers, before throwing the empty handgun at them. The colonel deftly parried an enemy chainsword, a baroque and ornate weapon heavily covered in Chaos symbols, before reposting and slicing his opponents gut open, entrails spilling messily on the ground.

Around him, Garrowans thrust and parried, fighting every bit as ferociously as their commander. Around them, Thorans battled desperately to rescue B'cyver. Maybe one hundred and fifty men were engaged now, some on the edges finding good positions to snipe from, other barrelling straight into the heaving mass of combat. Macara spied the other colonel trying to drag himself away from the feet of those trying their hardest to kill each other. The Garrowan parried another thrust and shouldered the man to the ground before reversing the blade and stabbing down once.

Standing above the Thoran commander, Macara swung his sword in glittering arcs, sometimes hitting the enemy, at others missing but driving them back.

With a roar, a fresh press of Thoran, led by a stocky major, pushed into the attack. Macara used the breathing space to haul B'cyver to his feet.

The tank roared again, killing half a dozen men, and Macara bellowed "Drive them into the buildings! Take cover! Go, go go!"

The Thorans killed any Chaos warrior not quick enough to escape whilst they scattered, taking up new positions. The tank bore down on them all, weapons scanning round.

With a whoosh, a krak rocket smacked into the side of the turret ring. The great tank didn't die, but the turret gears ground into place, the long barrel unable to traverse. It fired again, petulantly, round bringing down the front of a hab block in a shower of rubble.

A second shot hit the traitor tank, this time a powerful, blinding blast from a crew-served lascannon a few dozen metres away. Hitting where the side sponson and the main armour met, the round went straight through, causing untold damage to the men inside. The tank ground to a halt, thick, tar-filled smoke drifting into the air.

A cheer rose from the Imperial ranks, followed by a loud "For the Emperor!" The cultists had broken, and fell back through the streets, moving out of view as soon as was possible.

B'cyver leaned heavily on Macara, blood pouring out of a cut above his eye.

"Shit, that was rough. Thank you Daine, they would have had us."

"My pleasure. Now, you need to get to a forward dressing station." Macara gestured at the deep gash.

"I'm fine, a graze," B'cyver waved it away.

"Hey, no hero bullshit. You could have a concussion or even a fracture. You may have internal injuries from the blast. You have the responsibility for a whole regiment, so go and get it seen to. That's an order." Macara frowned. He waved a medic over to B'cyver.

"Okay, okay. But I won't be long. You have the regiment until then, Macara," B'cyver nodded, quite to Macara's surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, you are brigade commander. Just try not to get them all shot," B'cyver said as the medic led him away to where a group of wounded were being taken to a dressing station.

Macara voxed for the Thoran 2nd officer to approach him. Whilst he waited, he looked at the bodies of his enemies. There were at least one hundred dead here, three quarters of those Archenemy. The 'cultists' wore light khaki fatigues, with armour sections that had been jet black before the dark liner was scraped away, showing metal underneath. All had some form of mask on, but those who didn't had faces that were wholly unnatural. Not the scarred, grotesque vestiges of most cultists, rather almost perfect, unblemished faces. Many had scars, but they had been very well tended and did little to ruin the aesthetics of the faces that bore them. Many had taken an odd purple colouration that seemed to spread out like creepers, but it did nothing to diminish their faces.

Looking at the hardened warriors around him, very few could claim to be that perfect. Some were handsome, others rugged, but most had the tell-tale signs of a life at war. most had a shading of stubble, scars, missing eyes, teeth, ears. None could be called _perfect._

The enemies' armour was daubed in vulgar symbols that made Macara gag just to look at. Blood had been used to draw eight pointed stars, and much, much worse. As well as this, the cultists had battered but relatively new stamped lasguns, while their autoguns were in better condition than he'd anticipated. And their assault weapons were not the hoarded, ancient crap most cultists could lay claim to.

Finally, they all had a relatively uniform appearance through their fatigues and armour, although some sported chain mail vests, other wore full face helms, like knights, rather than masks or helmets. They were unlike any cultist horde Macara had ever seen.

"Vox man, here now," Macara ordered. His own voxman had been killed during the fighting, and it was a young, but unperturbed Thoran who responded. Grabbing the speaker horn the young corporal held out, Macara spoke not in Low gothic, but in the language of the hillfolk, that now served as the battle-tongue of Garrowan regiments. As far as they were aware, it had yet to be decrypted.

"Is that you, sir?"

"It's me, Major."

"We didn't know what had happened to you when the attack started, sir."

"How have the men handled it?" Macara asked, ignoring the reference to himself.

"We are still engaged. We didn't just let them run, though, Daine We pushed them back and went on the offensive. They received some reinforcements, but can't break our lines." Cairns said proudly.

"Tell me, Cairns, what do they look like."

"What was that, sir?" Cairns asked, not sure if he'd heard right over the volume of firing.

"Your assailants, what do they look like?"

"They are wearing dirty khaki fatigues, have black body-armour and decent weapons." The answer crackled slightly. But it was the answer Macara expected.

"Thanks Faolan. Do your best to hold them."

"We will, sir. For Garrowa."

"And he Blade." Macara finished the conversation. He passed the mic back to the Thoran corporal. As he did, the stocky Major approached him.

"Major Dalt, sir. You wanted to see me?"

"I did. I wanted to inform you that colonel B'cyver has put me in command as brigadier."

"Yes. Sir. He mentioned as he went to the rear." Dalt said with undisguised bitterness.

"You think I can't handle the job, major?" Macara snapped, maybe a little too harshly, for the man probably just wanted his own men under his command.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to offend you. Its jus…nothing. What about these cultists, sir. What do you make of them?"

"Well, major, I think we can safely say these aren't cultists." Macara stated flatly.

"They aren't?" Dalt asked, surprised.

"No. They're traitors. Well trained, well-armed Chaos Infantry."


	8. Chapter 7

Mk'Fedan sat in his quarters in the main spine, wishing he had permission to join the front line. He felt aggrieved that he needed permission from slime like Faulin to join his men. He also felt sorry for the four Fusiliers who had been assigned as his personal guards, and were now rotating in pairs with the arduous task of standing outside the ridiculously ornate wooden door to his offices, instead of being allowed to join their regiment. It wasn't in most Garrowans to sit back whilst their brothers fought and died.

The general threw the book he was reading at the wall with a dull 'thwump' and slammed his feet down on the table, legs straight, his large arms crossed in frustration and impotent anger. The door beeped and trooper Roscoe walked in.

"Everything okay sir?" he asked, concern on his face.

"Yes trooper, I'm fine. You and Mc'Nairn should go and get something to eat from the mess."

"Sir?" Roscoe looked surprised. "You sure?"

"I don't mind. Who is going to get me here? Just make sure Tollin or any of his lackey's doesn't see you down there."

"Thank you, sir," the trooper said, saluting before going for a well-earned break. Mk'Fedan stood up and walked over to where the book had landed, regretting his rough treatment of the old parchment. He'd owned it for about fifteen years now and he knew he should take better care of it.

As he bent over to retrieve it, he tilted his head slightly as he strained his ears. He remained, incongruously perched above the novel, until a moment later he was sure. Walking over to the plexiglass window, the General slid it open and listened carefully again. Definitely weapons fire. He could see banks of smoke in the distance as artillery shells crumped.

He wished he was there now, in amongst the fighting with his troops, but Faulin's policy was for all officers above brigade to stay at the rear. So Mk'Fedan sat twiddling his thumbs, hoping above hope he could get to fight.

* * *

"Hold firm Bravers! Send that thrice damned scum back where they came from!" Macara roared. He was standing on a line of old sandbags, pitted with numerous las and bullet scars whilst firing his pistol into the enemy. All around Thorans were taking cover behind debris, calmly and effectively firing lasguns at spots of heavy resistance. The Thorans were almost as good as his own men.

"Kill them! They have betrayed the Throne and so we must exact His revenge!" the colonel cried.

The firefight was fierce, around three thousand Thorans holding off more than twice their number. It was the same all along his line. Macara kept in constant contact with his unit commanders. Through sheer grit and determination, the Chaos filth had not broken through, losing scores upon scores to the Imperial fire. In the last hour, tac logic in the main spire had identified the treacherous guardsmen. They were formally of the Finlanian Dragoons, now the self-proclaimed Legion of Narcissus. He knew the stories well, for the Finlanians were infamous in this sector. Thirty years ago a full forty thousand of them had been tainted and had cast off their former allegiances. Tales of units of well-trained traitor armies, almost as skilled as those of the near-mythical Blood Pact circulated for decades but the Garrowans had met them relatively few times, mostly brief encounters on Cadia. Now Macara was seeing what thirty years of training, recruiting and massive expansion had done to the force.

It was becoming very obvious, very quickly, that the cultists were simple fodder that the Legion was using to infiltrate the city and sow discord before they made their presence felt. This threw all the Imperial intelligence in the air. There could be thousands of them. There could be millions. No one knew.

He snapped off a couple of shots at a cultist who had avoided the weight of Thoran lasfire. Now that the Legions impetuous rush had failed to breach the Imperial positions, they were again using cultists to soak the majority of firepower. Fireteams and sections of Legionaries moved forwards, bounding between cover, behind screens of screaming fanatics with no regard for their own safety.

To their credit, Macara thought, the Thorans were well drilled and their target priority was fantastic, picking only the most dangerous enemies first.

"Hold and deny! Hold. And. Deny!" Macara yelled again. Down on his left, a Thoran lost his head and top of his shoulders to a plasma blast, which then proceeded to vaporise most of the man behind him too. Macara recoiled back, feeling as if he had been too close to a sun for a millisecond. He looked at the crimson pauldron on his left shoulder, and saw the top layer of armaplas had melted and bubbled with the heat, showing the second layer of pure metal below. He snapped his gaze back to the fight and saw a Legionnaire desperately fighting with the cooling system of his ancient, battered weapon. The colonel directed some troopers to fire in traitor's direction, even as a plume of super-heated steam struck him in his ugly, scarred face. Macara wondered if the weapon's machine-spirit had been riled by killing loyal servants of the Emperor.

The sound of the battle was deafening, almost overwhelming, a Guard battalion firing all its small arms with heavy weapon support, the crump of artillery detonations followed by the earth-jarring shockwaves scant seconds later, combined with the overlapping noise of the enemies own fire power was a true assault on the senses, and only those men trained for such an experience could withstand it for very long.

The Garrowan colonel noticed the enemy fire slackening, and could see groups of Chaos soldiery cautiously pulling back, trying to avoid notice. There were now more dead and dying on the ground than living and fighting against the Imperials.

"Now men of Thora! Forward and drive them back!" he called out. The men fixed bayonets as they stood up from their barricades.

"Forward!" Macara called, a host of men flowing over the defences towards the arch-traitors. They charged forward, rifles blazing. The men to Macara's right fell, a gaping hole blown in his chest. A hail of heavy stubber rounds fell amongst the charging body of troops, killing over a dozen outright and wounding many more. The Thorans shouted in rage as they charged, wanting to get to grips with the enemy. The fire intensified for a moment as panic seized the cultists and the Legionnaires. But it was too late. The soldiers of the God-Emperor hit the traitor positions like a wave-surge and fierce, close in fighting ensued. In that kind of combat, it becomes hack-and-slash, mindless brutality as men forget tactical disciplines, close-quarter training and even their own morals, and for the men of Thora it was no different as they fought savagely, brutally, winning each individual fight any way they could. There were no orders, no battle-lines, just knots of men fighting to the death. Bayonets went forward silver and came back red. Men screamed in rage or pain and the Chaos breed fell one by one. Macara held his sword two-handed in the basket of the hilt, scything down on a Legionnaire's head. Sergeant Nolcol crushed the skull of a cultist with a downward strike from his rifle butt, the man screaming for redemption and mercy. All around, Thorans finished off their opponents, shooting enemies as they fled, or stopping to tend to the injured.

In the building major Dalt's squad was fighting, a group of Legionnaires got their backs against a wall and put up a stiff last stand. There could be no question of mercy, and Dalt called up a flamer which scoured the Chaos Warriors from the building in an intense firestorm. Smoldering and still screaming bodies thumped to the floor, the Thorans ignoring the throat-catching tang of burned flesh.

All along the line of buildings that marked the Chaos positions, a cheer went up as the last Legionnaires of Narcissus scuttled away across the wide highway that split the habs of this sector from those on the other side. The squad leaders kept their cool, and Macara could hear a cascade of 'clears' in his ear bead as rooms were checked and the perimeter secured.

Macara flicked the switch of his power sabre, and allowed the blade to cool down. He looked around at the men. They had done well to hold off and defeat the surprise attack.

"Order the heavy weapons up to this position. We will hold any ground taken that is sensible to do so. Dig in and secure this line of habs, use the highway as the perfect killing ground. They'll have to cross it to get to us. Make sure the wounded get seen to promptly." Macara said to the Bravers vox officer who was now crouching beside him.

"And tell the men they did well." He finished. The men gave an ironic cheer; they knew they had done well, but in the Imperial Guard it was always nice to hear an officer say so out loud. Especially a foreign officer.

"Colonel Sir, I have Major Cairns on the vox," the vox-man held up the mic. Wiping the now cool blade of his sword with a rag, Macara took the proffered handset.

"Go ahead."

"_Enemy is in full retreat, sir. We took about two hundred casualties, most of those wounded. We did not too badly, considering how many of those bastards there were._" Cairn's voice crackled slightly through some static.

"Well done major. Did you have much armour to face?"

"_Maybe five pieces of any real size. We took two, and Mk'Rae's lot popped the rest. Sir, shall I begin the advance again?_" Cairns asked.

"No," Macara said a little too sharply. "I do not wish to move on and get bogged down in ambush and counter attacks. But I don't want us to get stuck in a stale defensive action, so wait until we hear more from the other brigades. Brace the line against the main highway, use it as a kill-zone."

"_We wait_?" Cairns said, surprised.

"Yes, we wait. Not tactically sound, but at this moment a hell of a lot smarter than storming on ahead into who knows what. Think about it Faolan – so far we have total armour and air superiority. But the forces of Chaos are not as stupid as we give them credit for. We could run into full armoured divisions and get encircled, or they could launch numerous air squadrons. I don't want to be strung out and annihilated." Macara explained.

"_Affirmative, sir_," Cairns still sounded a little reluctant, but they had served together for years and he wouldn't argue with the colonel if his reasoning seemed sound. "_Out_."

"So, we are to wait?" asked Major Dalt, who had approached and listened to the end of the radio conversation. Something in his tone wrankled Macara.

"Yes, major, we wait. The men are not to become complacent, so put extra watches on, and find something to keep them active and alert in between sleeps. But yes, we wait." Macara replied, wondering if Dalt mirrored his own tone when talking to Faulin.

* * *

"Any news from the colonel?" Captain Mk'Shae of the Grenadier Company asked. Mk'Shae was a grizzled veteran, senior of the regiment's captains. He was hankering for the vacant major slot left by their campaign on Cadia.

"Yes. We hold until we receive news from the other brigades," Cairns repeated Macara's message.

"I'll set the Grenadier Company on overwatch from that larger hab block, with a good enfilade of the main approaches. I could do with some crew-served heavy bolters, sir." Mk'Shae offered, taking lead amongst the company commanders.

"Very good, get to it Heue." Cairns nodded. "Everyone else know what needs done?"

The Company officers around him nodded. Except one.

"We're just to hold? Shouldn't we be falling back? You saw the numbers the enemy had; we should consolidate our position before attacking again. Or let them dash themselves on our guns back at the Main Spine!" Captain Dyort muttered, interrupting.

"Shut up, Dyort." at least three officers said in unison. It appeared it was the favoured response of the entire regiment when this man was talking.

"We will follow orders, captain, and you will stop complaining." Cairns said, yet none of the irony was lost on him.

"But it is acceptable for the colonel to questions orders from a senior officer?" the wiry Captain muttered.

"What was that, Captain?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all." Dyort replied sharply.

Cairns stared the captain down, eyes full of malice as he remembered exactly why everyone disliked the man so much.

_The battalion had provided a rearguard on the retreat from one of the stricken Kasr's on Cadia. However, when they had almost reached safety they were attacked near a town lying between them and Kasr Tyrok. Four companies held the line as the others drew back in turn._

_Dyort, however, had been posted near a flank, and when he could no longer see the previous Company, ordered his own to fall back quickly. What he didn't realise, in his eagerness to fall back with the others, was that it wasn't 3rd's turn to withdraw, and he left 8 Coy stranded. The enemy pounced on them and quickly overwhelmed them. Captain Dyort returned when he learned of his mistake, and succeeded in driving the enemy away but by that stage half the company had been killed._

_Dyort had thought Macara would kill him, but the Colonel had given the man a second chance. Cairns and most of the other officers had not agreed, they wanted Dyort nowhere near them, but Macara was a good man and if he believed Dyort could redeem himself, they wouldn't argue. Didn't mean they had to like him._

_Despite his second chance, Dyort moaned and whined none the less._

"Alright, get you your men, be ready to move out." Cairns ordered. The officers walked away. "Dyort, a moment."

"Major?" Captain Dyort stopped in his tracks, turning to face the major.

"Listen to me, and listen well. Daine has given you a second chance…"

"I know he has, but…"

"Do _not_ interrupt me." Cairns prodded the shorter captain in the chest. "Daine has given you a second chance. If it were up to me or the others, you would be out of this regiment quicker than Ecclesiarch priests in a brothel. But the Colonel sees something in you. I don't know what. However, you need to stop bitching and do your duty. Prove Macara wasn't wrong to place his trust in you."

"Macara wanted to get rid of me as much as the rest of you." Dyort snapped back petulantly.

"But he didn't. He kept you here, despite his own reservation, placing his authority in peril, and gave you a chance to uphold regimental honour. He could have shot you out of hand, but he didn't, so show him some respect. And earn back ours."

Dyort didn't say a word, but Cairns could see the hate brimming in his eyes.

"Back to your men, captain." Cairns said more calmly. The major didn't know if that hate-filled gaze had been for him, the regiment's officer, or for Dyort himself. Cairns watched him walk away. Maybe he could redeem himself.

Keying his micro-bead, Cairns spoke.

"Vox-man, pass it round the regiment, form a defensive perimeter. Get those heavy bolters set up."

* * *

Private Gerbridge desperately reloaded his rifle. All around him men were fighting and dying, the khaki fatigues of the Dramarians mixing in amongst the dirty browns and sickly purples of the foe. His wide bowl steel helmet slipped slightly, almost obscuring his vision. Gerbridge threw the brim back and opened fire again, clearing a space before him.

Dramarians were singing songs of their homeworld as they slew, and they were winning, too. The enemy was being driven back.

Gerbridge shot a traitor in the spine and looked for a new target – there were none. Only the bodies of his enemies remained littered amongst those Dramarians still able to fight.

"Forward 79th! Don't give them room to rally! After them!" captain Dradford dashed past the gasping Guardsmen, sabre held high. The black ribbons of his red-and-white checked forage cap fluttered behind him as he ran. Dramarians streamed after the officer, their blood up. Gerbridge was dragged along with them, cheering as he went.

Clearing the habs, they arrived at a major junction of the highway. Cultists fled before them, barely looking back. Imperial tanks broke through walls and joined the road, weapons belching flame and death. Gerbridge didn't know much about the overall tactical plan, but he knew this crossroads marked an unofficial line – the stretch that ran north-to-south was acting like a fire-break, where the Guard units were holding the enemy back. The Westward pointing section led further into enemy territory. Inspired by their halting the forces of Chaos, and seeing some of their number charging forward, more troops hastened to join the advance. With no knowledge of what lay ahead, stopping now would be the most sensible thing to do.

But in situations like these, sense didn't prevail. All around, commissars and officers beat men into a frenzy and the Guardsmen ran on, streams of men from side-streets flowing together like tributaries onto the main width of the vast transit route, a river of soldier pushing on. Not all were Dramarians – local lads, the Ramilliens in their simple grey-drab uniforms, Elysians in their bloused fatigues, strange bull-pup lasguns held close. What started as a handful had quickly swollen to thousands as this flow of humanity charged on.

Gerbridge was jostled past a commissar standing on a wrecked habber-transport bus, reading from his Uplifting Primer. He screamed the words and urged the host of men onwards. He fired his pistol into the crowd at the shapes of any men or women trying to resist the tide.

Some officers tried to directed squads to adjacent streets and hab blocks, knowing the risks of over extending, but most were caught up in the glory of battle. Gerbridge started to panic as they went further and further from their lines. The fleeing cultists were being cut down when they were caught up to, or others were shot in the back without mercy. Their flight and panic only encouraged the Guardsmen onwards. All Gerbridge could see were tall hab-blocks overlooking the highway, and ahead he could make out the walls of habs fading away into what was probably a square or park of some description.

Here and there Guardsmen fell and were simply crushed by their comrade sin the dramatic charge. It was utter mayhem, but commissars amongst them drove the mass of men onward. This was how the Guard fought after all – an irresistible force driving the enemy back by weight of numbers.

Gerbridge emerged from the shadow of hab-blocks to see what the open space was – a memorial plaza beside the transit route, with dozens of buildings bulldozed to make the space bigger.

And in that space….

Gerbridge's panic reached its maximum as he saw the lined up tanks of the arch-enemy. They were adorned with the corpses of PDF soldiers, daubed in Chaos symbols that made him want to gag. Before the armour, dozens of ranks of Legionnaires, weapons trained.

The host of Guardsmen slowed and, seeing the fate that was about to befall them, made that flight-or-fight choice. Many let training take over and brought their weapons round, but many more, too many, chose flight. They turned and pushed against the surge, and their panic was infectious.

That was when the Legion's Praefects gave the order. Tanks and infantry fired and where a huge column of the Imperium's finest had stood became a charnel house. In seconds, hundreds of troops were killed or injured.

All along the hab blocks, windows were knocked out and Legionnaires inside fired down from the perfect enfilade onto the highway.

It was a slaughter, made worse by those behind being pushed on by merciless commissars as he survivors tried to fall back.

Gerbridge lost a leg in the opening salvo and fell, a heap of bodies covering him from the waist down. Through some quirk of fate, the weight of the corpses pinning his stump help to stem the bleeding. He struggled, trying to push the bodies off so he could escape.

The tanks moved then, driving onto the shattered road, grinding dead and wounded beneath their tracks. A terrible wailing erupted from those Guardsmen who could not escape as the tracks crushed them to jellied-pulp. More weapons slaughtered the packed masses.

Gerbridge was white as a sheet, terrified as the infantry worked their way along, bayoneting the wounded. The strange, horrible soldier of the enemy, faces either completely masked, or completely unadorned to display their perfection, moved relentlessly onward. One thrust his serrated blade slowly into a screaming Ramillien's eye, making sure the young soldier knew what was happening. As the warrior turned his masked head, he caught the struggles of Gerbridge. The Dramarian screamed in fright as the Legionnaire stood on his chest and leant the bloodied bayonet against his sternum. Gerbridge pissed himself as he babbled and pleaded for mercy. The Legionnaire simply leant forward, making bone crack and piercing flesh. Gerbridge screamed and screamed in agony, and the last thing he saw was the bright eyes, and the joyous smile beneath the breathing grill of the helmet of his killer.

* * *

It was over an hour before Macara returned, Nolcol's men still in tow. Macara's Colour Party stood there, most looking relieved to see the Colonel, but embarrassed and annoyed that he had gone off on his own. Sergeant Miskelly, doughty and reliable, nodded to him. He still had the Colours tightly in his hand, as always. Corporal Dillin and Mk'Hellin just stood and relaxed now they knew he was ok. Private Sterrit grabbed Major Cairns attention and pointed to the colonel. Cairns approached and stiffened slightly in acknowledgement, but not going as far as saluting. No need to mark Macara out for snipers.

"We have had no word from any of the other brigades, but we can easily hear gunfire. Apparently they're still fighting." he said, a slight tone of irony in his voice. It was the only report he could give the colonel, and one he knew Macara had probably guessed for himself.

Corporal Kallum approached with Macara's command group, several worried body-guard troopers looking on anxiously.

"You're looking a right state, sir." Kallum remarked on the dirt-coated uniform. It was his subtle rebuke for Macara going off without him.

"You aren't much better, corporal." Macara replied as he stared at Kallum's almost pristine kit. How the man kept his equipment in such good order during battle was a mystery to all. The colonel looked at the men around him.

"Sergeant Nolcol, get back to the Company. Make sure you give those ID disks to the captain."

"Yes sir," the gruff NCO replied, leading his squad away.

Macara turned to Cairns "Have we any idea what Faulin intends yet?"

"Ah, yes sir, actually. He says, despite the lack of contact with everyone else, we are to attack as per the mission statement." Cairns replied warily, knowing he had only just held his own anger in check when he received the message.

Macara didn't snap, as predicted, but stood, stroking his chin as he thought hard for a moment. It didn't last long, as he punched at the nearest hab wall.

"Damn him and damn his eyes again. What is he playing at? Fine, we'll play it his way, but we'll do it carefully. Faolan, I want you to take…"

"Here they come again!" a lookout several floors up bellowed to the gathered command staff.

"Stand to! Stand to!" Cairns cried. Sergeants took up the cry and men who were resting or seeing to battlefield tasks dropped what they were doing and grabbed their weapons, streaming from their resting places to the piquet line. Windows and doors were manned in a heartbeat, and squads deployed behind barricades once again. The first weapons to bark were the battalions supporting heavy bolters, spitting death into the ranks of the as yet unseen enemy, their high vantage points proving highly useful.

"Riflemen, don't fire when they appear. Let them draw close." Macara spoke calmly to his men. With more rapid stamping of feet around him, the whole regiment stood ready to repel the charging foe. More heavy bolter rounds thudded the air. Here and there, the whoosh-krump of frag missiles punctuated the large calibre bolt rounds.

The first of the enemy came into view on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare. Cultists in their thousands were lined along the highway, rapidly and inaccurately snapping off las and auto-rounds in the general direction of the Garrowan soldiers. Behind them, Legionnaires could be seen talking up position and directing the fodder the cult members offered towards the Imperial guns. In the background, the heavy thudding of artillery told Macara that the enemy was attacking all along the line again.

In several places, in ones and twos, cultists darted forward, trying to cover the open killing zone before they were slaughtered. When no fire came their way, more and more started crossing the roadway.

"Sergeant major, if you please?" Macara asked Mk'Askill

"Thank you sir! Battalion!" he cried, keying his micro-bead at the same time. None of the Garrowans liked when Mk'Askill was in a bellowing mood – barking into their ear pieces tended to hurt. "Battalion will present volley fire by platoon at one hundred yards!"

Weapons came to shoulders instantly, and Mk'Askill allowed himself a rare grin. "Fire!"

The first ragged line of cultists fell like a row of wheat beneath the scythe, but more followed as the cultists dashed between abandoned automobiles and road barriers. Another thundering volley followed a couple of heartbeats later, and then another and the cultists fell in droves.

As the Chaos worshippers came ever closer, the command changed as the RSM sucked air into his lungs once more.

"Companies, fire at will!" as the nearest cultists reached a point no further than fifty yards distant. The controlled, whipping volleys were replaced by a constant stream of lasfire. The odd tank shell fell just within sight, as tanks of the 1st Household Cavalry engaged the foe to the flanks.

But the numbers of enemy wasn't thinning at all. If anything, they were growing more numerous. Legionnaire squads were joining the host now as they pushed towards Macara's position.

"Vox, get on to Command and inform them we are being attacked by serious enemy force and request additional men if we are to hold indefinitely." Macara spat before snapping off the last round in his bolt pistol. "And tell Tollin I was right."

Slamming a new clip home, he breathed deeply before shouting to those closest

"Men of Garrowa, give them some righteous fury!"

* * *

"Lord General, I have some disturbing news from the front." A staff-major said hurriedly as he entered Faulin's chambers. Tollin was with him and spun with surprise.

"What is it?" Faulin replied wearily. He had been receiving reports all day of heavy engagements against a foe now confirmed to be the Legion of Narcissus. Faulin had never fought them, but knew commanders who had, and he had no wish to do so himself.

"Bukanan's brigade has engaged but are holding firm so far. They are, however, standing against unknown numbers of arch-enemy traitors and don't know how much longer they can hold. General of PDF Geruther's brigade has fallen back, overwhelmed. The 11th Garrowan have been almost wiped out acting as rearguard. Three thousand, two hundred and nineteen dead or missing, and thirty-two wounded." the Major reported.

"Only thirty two wounded?" Faulin asked, surprised.

"Only thirty two they could take with them. The rest were left behind."

"I didn't think Garrowans ever left wounded men behind?"

The Major shrugged slightly "They couldn't manage the numbers of wounded. The 11th were driven back before they could retrieve them by enemy numbers."

"The Garrowans will not like that, sir." Tollin spoke worriedly.

"I don't care what the Garrowans think," replied Faulin with false bluster. "I am in command, not they."

The staff-major coughed. His face was "There is more, sirs. The large part of a whole division broke through the enemy lines at rid set alpha-3, around the main transit hub. But they advanced into a strong counter attack and have been effectively wiped out."

Faulin sat bolt upright now. "That leaves a hole in our line….they'll pour straight through…"

"They already have, sir."

* * *

Macara could see all along the line of broken highway a mass of enemy soldiers that wasn't thinning. Men died horribly as enfilading Heavy Bolters send large calibre shells thudding into the mass of men. Legionnaires and cultists were now intermingled as they pushed forwards into the firestorm the Garrowans were churning out. Three hundred yards to the left, one of Mk'Rae's Leman Russ roared as its battlecannon spat death towards the enemy. The vehicle shuddered and bucked as two rockets struck the front armour, but they barely managed to scratch the paint work.

Macara cracked off another trio of shots from his pistol at cultists who were streaming towards him. Several times now knots of chaos solders had reached his line and caused heavy casualties before being wiped out, but as soon as they were gone there was the main threat of ever encroaching Legionnaires. Any moment when the whole regiment wasn't firing, the cream-and-black figures with their hideously perfect faces were gaining better positions to mount their offensive from.

"_Sir, Coy is having trouble here. We're running low on ammo and they keep pushing. We have steel fixed and have had to use it,_" Mk'Shae's voice came across the micro-bead. He was positioned a little beyond the Leman Russ in a cluster of empty warehouses with plenty of good firing positions. The way inter-regimental comms had been dropping in-and-out, he was slightly surprised that it was working even at this range.

"I know captain; it's the same here too. We…" Macara paused, instinctively flinching as a las-round sent splinters of rockcrete from the doorframe flying in all directions. The man next to the colonel took a small slice from his cheek, another a splinter in his arm but Macara was untouched. The colonel knew better than to stand in the same spot and expect to go unnoticed so he led his Colour Party further along the line and took cover in the gutted wreck of a bakery. Stale bread was still scattered along the floor, and a fine white dust seemed to coat everything. A few stray rounds chased them in, but his troopers took cover and returned fire. Corporal Kallum, all six foot seven of him, was bent nearly double trying to avoid fire. Miskelly grunted as a shot punched through the heavy silk of the regimental standard. A trio of privates from 4 Coy were nestled in the rubble, cracking off shots at the enemy whenever they had the chance. The three looked round at the new arrivals, and grinned at their commander. the one in the centre, Private Mk'Dinnan nodded respectfully to Macara, who gave a small grin back to his men. Kallum bustled by now he was safer.

"I fecking hate being so tall," he mumbled as he passed Macara.

"_Sir. SIR? Can you hear me?_" the noise shocked Macara, remembering he hadn't finished speaking to his Grenadier Captain.

"Yes, Heue, I can hear you. Sorry, had to move suddenly. We're taking it bad. 4 Company is beside me and they are taking a beating themselves. It's not looking good. I've voxed for help but got no reply. Can you hold?" Macara replied quickly.

"_Mk'Rae's tanks are helping. With ammo we can probably hold. But without…_"

"We'll break them. We'll have help."

"_Faulin won't spare anything. He'd leave us to die._"

"I know. But we'll fight them none the less. Just fight, Captain. Make them pay. Mk'Fedan will make sure help is coming. And don't let our glorious Commissar Klousour hear you, he may misunderstand and try to blow your face off." Macara tried to lighten the mood ever so slightly, and to not let Mk'Shae's mood linger on the situation.

"_We'll fight to the last damned man._"

"Here's hoping we won't have to. Macara out."

"Watch out!" a voice cried loudly from the next building over, and Macara edged round the wall, pistol first, to see what was happening just as the roar sounded.

* * *

"What do you mean, you've sent no help?" Mk'Fedan bellowed, spittle flecking from the corners of his mouth.

"There…there was no one to send…" Tollin stammered as Mk'Fedan pulled the staff officer bodily towards himself. The Kasrkin bodyguard just stared mutely at the muscled Garrowan, though Mk'Fedan doubted it was out of fear he let his charge be handled so.

"What about the reserve forces?" Mk'Fedan asked angrily.

"They need to defend the main spine and the nearest factorums! They cannot…"

"What you mean is you will not. You will leave men to die rather than risk your own safety." The Garrowan spat on the expensive carpet of the hallway.

"Lord General Faulin…"

"I don't care! He is in command, but he will not leave my men to die." Mk'Fedan let the little staff-General go, and started pounding along the hallway. He was sure he heard the masked Kasrkin chuckle slightly as Tollin made exasperated bleatings. He left with one

"I'll sort this myself, Cadian." He thundered.

* * *

The Legion officer looked genuinely terrified. He had had his helmet removed, and around him stood the imposing figures of the Praefectus bodyguards, weapons poised. Two nearly-naked pleasure-slaves sat whispering and kissing, chains connecting them to their master. The disgraced officer was on his knees before that very figure, the imposing Evocatae Praefectus. And the general was not pleased. Armed for battle, his wicked scythe, haft writhing as if alive, was in his pale bare hand. The rest of his flesh was hidden from view by uniform and armour.

"Evocatae Kohortus, last you reported to me, the cultists were pinning the Imperial scum down and all you needed do was unleash my forces upon them. And yet, still they resist." The voice hissed through the mouth grill of his ornate helmet.

"Yes, lord. But our forces are still fighting! They ha…"

With one precise, exact slice, the chief Evocatae's scythe blade cut through the cheek walls and ripped the tongue clean out. The Kohortus' head whipped to the side with the blow, but he was still alive. Blood foamed where the ruin of his mouth was, and he made a strange gurgling sound.

"There, that sounds much better. Less…nonsense. As I was saying, they still resist. This is unacceptable. You have forced my hand now. As such, you shall be punished. I will give you a chance to speak in your defence now."

The officer gurgled slightly louder, and his eyes widened. A couple of the Praefectus bodyguards chuckled grimly; the sound both beautiful and terrible to hear from throats maimed by the Gods-only-knew what.

"Nothing? Oh well. Give him to the women," the Evocatae pointed to his slave-girls. "And whatever they leave, give to the Clawed Fiend."

The gurgled became more high-pitched as the woman took the officer by the wrists and started dragging him away, pain and blood-loss sapping his strength.

From beneath the eye-slits of the ornate helmet, the gaze of the Evocatae fell on his senior Praefectus.

"You, I am promoting you to the ranks of the Kohortii. As new Kohortus, I expect you to be more successful than your," the general paused as a truly horrific squeal came from behind them. "Predecessor."

"What would you have me do, lord?" the newly appointed colonel bowed his head.

"Bring up two Storm Kohorts; use those veteran shock troops to break the forces of the False-Emperor. Crush their will to fight and then drive on!"

"Of course, my lord."

"Good. Make them pay." The Evocatae finished as another high-pitched wail pierced the air.

* * *

"I am busy!" Faulin snapped as his door was knocked politely.

A moment later, the volume and force of the knocking changed, as if another had taken up the task much more forcefully. When still there was no answer, the door sung inwards with a thud, the glowering Mk'Fedan entered, the smaller, but doughty Thoran general M'sade just behind him. Colonel Dreksson loomed in the hallway.

"What do you think you were doing, Faulin?" Mk'Fedan snarled. "Where the hell is our organised central command? Why is there no relaying of information? No Senior officer conferences to decide strategy?"

"My units are being drip-fed into combat situations against enemy contact far more numerous than formally estimated!" M'sade added his thoughts.

"Has this suddenly become a guard where senior officers are ignored or spoken to any way you please?" the Lord General raged, unable to control his temper.

"It does when the Commander is wastefully sending men to their deaths to no benefit." Dreksson muttered under his breath from the doorway.

"Has it become a Guard where the commander need not provide competent leadership?" M'sade asked insolently, his voice loud enough to cover Dreksson's own.

"Watch you tone, general. I could have you shot for it." The Lord General said with a sneer.

Mk'Fedan replied with his own look of derision. "I believe that sort of discipline of a senior officer is for the commissariat. You don't get to just declare the senior general of an army group dead because you've taken a blow to your ego."

Faulin flexed his hands a few times, clenching his fists, shoulders quivering slightly, but evidently managed to suppress his rage. The violet eyes looked coldly at the Garrowan.

"It matters not. In the theatre of an Imperial Liberation or Crusade, the Warmaster has authority over all. Even the Navy comes under his command for the duration of the campaign. I most certainly have full authority over the Guard."

"Is that what you think you are now, Faulin? A Warmaster? You aren't fit to lead a platoon. If you were, you would be relaying vital info to M'sade and myself about our forces in the field."

"You forget yourself, general. I do notneed to divulge information to my juniors unless _I_ deem it appropriate." Faulin replied, getting frustrated.

"My men are dying out there and you don't deem it _appropriate_ that I know? And don't quote guard regulation to me, I know them all, despite not _having_ to adhere to them." Mk'Fedan said pointedly. Even M'sade shrank back slightly at this remark, bordering horribly close to treason.

Faulin sneered. "Oh, yes, I forgot you are nothing more than a glorified militia. Guarding the houses whilst the Astartes are away, wasn't that your jobs? Which in itself brings another point – many people in authority find it disturbing that a Space Marine Chapter can raise such a force of men that seem to believe they needn't follow Guard discipline if they don't want to. The only reason that the matter has not been brought to the attention of the High Lords of Terra is because your men have, so far, proven useful. Unless you want that to change, I'd fall in line pretty quickly!"

Mk'Fedan almost threw himself at Faulin, but a strong, heavily muscled arm held his right shoulder. It wasn't enough to physically stop him, but was strong and imposing enough to make Mk'Fedan think twice about his action. He turned and saw Dreksson shake his head lightly, a serious look in his eyes. The Garrowan general could tell what the reproving look meant, and he sagged slightly, knowing he had lost his cool like some young buck private. He nodded at the big, sun tanned Senior Colonel.

"If that is everything, I believe I must have someone in to repair my door." He said. The other three officers walked out the room, Mk'Fedan 'accidentally' shouldering a guard top the ground when the man tried to enter and attend to Faulin.

A hundred metres down the corridor, the little group stopped short.

"You have some temper, Mk'Fedan. Worthy of a Velocinychus!" Dreksson grinned slightly.

"That man needs a slap. Then a kick in the teeth. Then another slap." Mk'Fedan replied through gritted teeth. M'sade smiled genuinely, and Dreksson allowed his grin to widen.

"Alert all units to prepare to fall back if ordered. They need to have plans in place." The Verdani ranger said.

M'sade replied with equal regret and anger in his voice. "Faulin does not feel it necessary that we make broadcasts to our units without going through his Offices first."

"I don't care. I'll send my personal vox-man to your quarters when I'm done my broadcasts. I want my lads prepared to fall back if necessary, not figuring out how to withdraw in the middle of a fight." The brooding Garrowan muttered darkly.

"And in the meantime?" Dreksson asked.

"How many cavalry can you call on from your units?"

Dreksson thought for a moment. "About nine hundred 'Nychus riders, and another two thousand men in sentinels and Chimeras. What are you thinking?"

"Would some form of cavalry shock charge be possible in this city?" M'sade interjected, guessing where Mk'Fedan was going with his train of thought.

"It would, yes. But I doubt even our 'nychus have the numbers to break the enemy lines." Dreksson admitted.

"Cartel has what, something five thousand cavalry on this world? We have four, five hotspots right now, where an enemy breakthrough would cause total collapse. Some of those locales are holding well, but we can't risk losing them. Others have already broken and are now fleeing back from their positions. we NEED to support them and soon! I reckon we break up your command into four, reinforce the with Dramarian Lancers and use shock to force the enemy back, allow the infantry to reform. Then if necessary, regroup the cavalry and move them to other trouble spots."

"It could work, if we can get Cartel onboard with the idea?" M'sade nodded slowly.

"He will, don't worry. He owes my boys anyway. Plus, he's no idiot." Mk'Fedan replied.

"What about Faulin?" Dreksson asked the question they were all thinking.

"We'll just have to convince him not to court-martial us when we save his army." Mk'Fedan said finally.

* * *

Legion Shock Troops dashed from concealment, the veterans amongst the traitors coming to punish those who still followed the Emperor loyally. To a man, none had the ghastly beauty of those around them from the 'ranks' of the Legion horde – these all wore skull shaped visors over their gasmasks and bore plates of armour about their fronts, better to get close to the enemy.

"All units, fire on the heavies, now!" Macara cried into his vox, the call being passed along the short-ranged by other officers and sergeants as they heard it. Any Garrowans able opened up with rifles, plasma guns, grenade launchers and anything else they had, and the Legion Veterans fell in droves. A lasbolt struck the wall next to Macara's head, but before he could reply Trooper Mk'Dinnan blasted the shooter from his feet. Macara nodded gratefully as the private opened fire again, the others around him doing likewise.

But more came, and in a few short heartbeats they were across the battle-scarred highway. In their wake followed the regular Legionnaires and the remaining cultists, following the shock troops right onto the Imperial positions.

Macara had his sword scything through the leering skull visage of the first storm trooper inside his building. Brain matter flew across the nearest wall, and then the next figure was in the room. Even as Macara drove his blade tip first through the warrior's sternum, and then the room was full of battling men.

The Colour Party brought their weapons against the Legionnaires. Mk'Hellin and Dillin fired their las-pistols into the chaos troops in front of them, spontoon-spears too long to use with any potency. Shock troops pushed their way into the room, lashing out with hatchets and bayonets.

Miskelly hacked down with his chainsword, colours still held high and proud even though none could see them.

Macara twisted aside as a bayonet scraped his chest-plate and brought his sabre down in a back-handed slice that nearly cut the foe in two. "Drive them back!" he cried, even as he could hear desperate calls on his vox declaring close quarters all along the line.

Mk'Askill, almost head shorter than Kallum but built just as thickly, drove his bayonet into an enemy and pinned him to the wall so hard the blade snapped, only the hilt left attached to his rifle, as another veteran Legionnaire came upon him. A las-round creased his cheek, drawing blood and singing his flesh. Anger flared in his eyes and he stabbed the weapon forward regardless, remains of the blade and muzzle of his rifle plunging into flesh anyway.

Sterrit was pulled to the ground kicking and screaming, the enemy plunging bayonets and knives into his gut multiple times, leaving entrails and gore hanging out. Kallum smashed the skull of one enemy even as he killed the other Garrowan.

Macara sliced down again, but couldn't see any way out of the situation. He couldn't call a retreat because the enemy was right on them and he would lose thousands of men trying to extricate them from this fight. All he could do now was fight and kill until he couldn't kill anymore.

The ground was rumbling as they fought. It started off gradually, almost unnoticeable, but it grew. Kallum snapped an enemies' neck with his own hands before noticing the ground shaking.

"Sir?" he called.

Macara drove the point of his blade into the throat of a fallen enemy and called back breathlessly. "It's not armour. I…I don't know."

He could hear cheering now, Garrowan-edged cheering, and then there was a frightful clash of bodies, the sounds of loud hissing and piercing shrieks and wet, chewing sounds. The room he was in was suddenly empty of enemy troops – the living ones at least. Breathing hard, he staggered to the broken wall and what he saw defied belief.

Before them the fighting was thick and fierce, the air full of lasfire and screams for the injured and dying. And they were galloping towards it.

Major Ladsson sat atop his Velocinychus as it ran towards the enemy, long neck and head bobbing as it went. With him rode more of these fearful creatures, Verdani Rangers guiding them forth, a host of snapping jaws and whipping tails. Their riders holstered their rifles and held their dreaded hunting lances couched and ready for impact.

"Verdani and the Emperor!" he bellowed a moment before his force struck. In this city setting, cavalry charges were not easy, but the Verdani were skilled at riding in jungles were space was even less available. From a dozen streets, over two hundred of his riders struck the Legionnaires. Serrated teeth and razor sharp claws tore through flesh and armour, jaws snapped on heads and lances pierced chaos bodes. Hundreds died in minutes and a wedge of dark green scales broke into them.

Ladsson knew his small force could cause serious harm, but the longer they remained the more momentum they lost and their foes would soon begin to drag men from saddles and hamstring the nimble Velocinychus. There were still too many unbroken infantry standing around looking for things to kill, and his Rangers couldn't break them all.

But this had been planned for.

Following them came almost a thousand Dramarian Lancers, brave men who rode equines to battle, braver still for bringing their mounts near the voracious 'Nychus, in his opinion. Their charge hit home, and whilst it didn't have quite the same punch, the weight of horses and the force of lances still reaped a fearful toll. Those troopers whose lances were used, threw down the weapons and drew sickly-sharp sabres and spurred their mounted forward, hooves lashing out and breaking skulls as sword arms fell.

Ladsson laughed with the slaughter, and drove his mount forwards.

Macara let out a relieved laugh of his own. His men were cheering, and they could see the tipping point was now here. "All Companies, make sure bayonets are still fixed and advance on the enemy! Watch those bloody lizards, but go to the enemy! Drive them back!" he called into his microbead. Mk'Hellin was relaying down the long range vox, ensuring the colonel's message was heard.

Drawing his pistol with one hand, his bright blade held firm in the other Macara went forward, Miskelly hefting the colours high as they left the crumbling bakery.

"Garrowa!" he yelled, and was rewarded by an echoing roar from his men as they charged to help the cavalry.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Watch out, they're coming again!" an officer called. Mk'Greyger looked at the men of the 4th Rifles. They were scattered amongst the rubble, dug in as best they could. As light infantry they should have been skirmishing and moving, harassing the enemy flanks whilst the main battle lines drew closer and utilised their heavy weapons. Now they were dug in and acting like regular infantry. Whilst all good shots, well trained and steadfast, it was not a role to which they were ideally suited, their lack of heavy weapons and armoured support starting to tax them.

"Stand firm Riflemen! You don't want those bloody Heavies to get one over on us, do you?" the lieutenant-colonel called. He was rewarded with only a lack-lustre response. The men were sick of fighting like this.

But they fought on regardless, a fusillade of lasfire erupting from the foxholes and craters they occupied. Cultists fell everywhere, tattered robes catching fire as las shots scorched them, men and women, filthy and half-naked, dying in droves before they could get anywhere near his men.

So far they had been very lucky, and had yet to encounter any of the traitor Guardsmen who had by all accounts been swarming over Imperial positions elsewhere in the city.

There was a sudden yelp, as a Rifleman had his marksman counterpart's head explode blood and brain all over his face, an enemy bolt round having ruptured it like a ripe ploin.

The cultists, through sheer numbers were getting closer, old autoguns, captured lasguns and an assortment of pistols replying poorly to the accurate fire of his riflemen. They weren't using the terrain effectively.

Mk'Greyger sighted down his laspistol and let lose a small salvo, knocking several cultists from their feet. None stood again.

Solid shots and las rounds flickered past the Riflemen as they fired and reloaded, but casualties were low despite the volume of fire. The Garrowan Riflemen were bedded in low, using their fieldcraft to gain natural protection from their surroundings. It was the one part of their training they were able to utilise, even in this type of battlefield. Even the Heavies would be taking numerous casualties to such fire. But Mk'Greyger's boys knew their stuff well.

More cultists were moving forwards. It was still a large pack, many of the filthy creatures writhing against each other in between bouts of firing, their dark God's pleasure seemingly as important as killing the enemy.

They were getting closer now, within maybe 50 yards, but they advanced no further. They stood in the open, blasting away. Some threw bricks, others simply stood screaming and chanting.

"That's it boys, give them some punishment!" the Colonel bellowed. Riflemen emptied clip after clip, three thousand men against maybe twice that number. It was almost glorious, the way they were holding them back. If only it wasn't so one-sided.

"Sir, we'll need to send back for more ammunition again!" one of his subalterns called out. "Rifles running low."

"Thank you, lieutenant. Organise a team, then vox ahead so it's ready for them arriving." Mk'Greyger replied.

"Yes sir."

Still the cultists didn't advance, but just stood dying in droves, accurate Garrowan firepower scything them like chaff. Barely twenty of them had been killed in return, and maybe three times that suffering injuries. They were by far having the better of this uneven fight. It was butchery now. Mk'Greyger couldn't even begin to guess how many bodies were in front of him, but there were now more dead and dying cultists than living.

A grenade launcher 'whumffed' twice, and the explosions rippled amongst the chaos worshippers.

"_A coy down to their last mags_"

"_C coy running on empty._" The vox calls began coming in.

Something wasn't right. The cultists were being mauled, their numbers rapidly dwindling as the Garrowans placed all their concentration on them. But the las fire was lessening, as squad leaders were having to control their men's firing.

"_D coy empty, only special weapons have anything left._"

"All squads, ceasefire and lay low. I say again, cease fire and lay low!" Mk'Greygor voxed to the company commanders, who then relayed it to their men. "Save your rounds!"

The colonel was thinking rapidly. The cultists were still standing off. And still there was no sign of any of the Legion of Narci…

That was it!

"Watch out all squads! Reload if you've got them and fix bayonets!" Mk'Greger called hurriedly. The order was followed without hesitation and all along the line, the sound of metal-against-metal was heard as bayonets were fitted onto rifle-lugs.

He drew his sword from its scabbard on his back. It wasn't a power blade, but a two-handed, doubled-edged broadsword, a weapon he had kept from his time in the mountains of Garrowa. It had become almost like a member of the regiment in its own right. It was now a trademark item that all the Rifles could associate with him. It gave them heart in a fight to see the weapon kill the enemies of the Emperor.

But it also signaled that a close-quarter brawl was coming. The men nearest all looked at him, worry in their eyes.

"Look to your front, damn you!" he shouted, seriously worried now. He had barely gotten the words out, when pouring from the buildings behind the cultists swarmed the Legion of Narcissus, a shout in their throats and numbers on their side. They had used the cultists as a distraction, nothing more, and thousands had died to drain the Riflemen's weapons.

"Fire!" Mk'Greyger screamed. The volley killed hundreds in mere moments, but had not the rounds to hold the Legion and seconds later the enemy was all over them.

* * *

"How many did we lose?" Kopar asked his head acolyte, one of the Interrogators who showed enough promise to someday become an Inquisitor in his own right.

"Three storm troopers and one of the savants. Interrogator Bairk took a stray blast from one of the psykers. Could have been a lot worse." The man replied.

"Bairk was incompetent if he was unable to avoid that blast. Ah well, no great loss. Very good, Celir. Thank you."

"Slythis took almost half of them herself, the storm troopers held off any she missed." Celir continued. "Thirty-three Legionaries"

"'Legionnaires' is their proper plural." Kopar corrected the acolyte distractedly. "Send the storm troopers further out so we can be aware of any attacks in proper time. It stretched my powers to combat their psykers myself. We may need help now."

"Yes, my lord. Shall I see about requesting some Guard units?" Celir asked.

"Not yet. I would prefer some of Faulin's Kasrkin, but I shall see what he can provide. That way I can choose units who will be more…receptive…to my commands."

"The fighting is getting severe my lord. We may have to act soon, or they may be in no position to aid us."

"That is very true, Interrogator. Now go about your duties and let me think more on this."

Celir bowed low, saying no more, and went to find the Storm Trooper leader.

* * *

Celir wasn't wrong. In the north, the Cadians were taking horrendous casualties and whilst standing to the last man, bravely holding their lines. But the incompetence of their commander was costing them dear.

In one Cadian Brigade, backed up by Ramillien PDF, a 'green' Cadian unit (if green were ever the right term for such toughened soldiers) was overrun and the survivors retreated, hollering combat ineffective down the vox as they withdrew. The space created allowed units of drug-crazed ogryns, berserk on triple-dosed obscura, to smash into the Ramilliens and despite their bravery, they were ill-equipped for the vicious abhumans and fell back in disarray. Commissars shot many trying to stem the tide, but found themselves facing the ogryns and being torn limb from limb for their troubles.

Demerche was ordered to send in some of his Drop Companies to stem the tide. The Elysians came in on their Valkyries, straight to the trouble zone, to find the Cadians overrun and the Ramilliens gone, surrounded and outnumbered without support by the Legion. They landed at the locations given to them by Command in the main spine, surrounded and outgunned, slaughtered within their own LZs.

Cartel's Dramarians were being flanked and annihilated on several fronts, not used to fighting without trenches from which to launch their Chimera-borne counter attacks. The cavalry couldn't use their mobility in the streets and, having been on the receiving end already the Legion had changed tack to counter it. Crude caltrops and trip wires were carried and whenever cavalry detected, put to scarily effective use.

Even the Garrowans were being driven back in numerous places. Fighting hard, they couldn't hold back the countless hordes of cultists and Legionnaires.

No one was asking where they had come from, how so many had arrived on this world, or why they were battling so hard for it. They were simply following orders.

Thousands were dying for Faulin's foolishness.

And all the while he sat and plotted and planned and thought how to get out of this mess whilst still doing what the Inquisitor demanded.

* * *

"Pull our men back!" Demerche yelled.

"I cannot. We need to continue our push" Faulin shouted back.

"No, you can and you will! We have suffered enormous casualties. Over eighty thousand dead and almost as many injured! If it were not for our men's stubborn dedication to the god-Emperor, most of our forces would be _annihilated_!" Cartel joined in. He was having none of Faulin's nonsense, as his men were suffering badly. "You realise I have lost almost two full regiments in the South, never mind the casualties suffered by the other battalions!"

"The Ramilliens have had just as heavy casualties. They are not suggesting we move out," Tollin pointed out.

"They have not been given the option," a gruff voice spoke from the door of the office. Mk'Fedan had returned, and was eyeing up the silent Ramillien officers skeptically.

"We must find a way to keep up our momentum!" Faulin replied.

"What momentum?! Our troops are moving _backwards_! We have so many wounded being evacuated the roads are blocked, meaning our troops cannot safely pull back without being forced to grind out a withdrawal, and cannot advance due to overwhelming enemy numbers that you _didn't_ _know_ _about_!" the Elysian general bellowed again.

"Granted, we did not anticipate this, but…" General Tollin tried to intervene.

"But what? You didn't anticipate the numbers of the enemy? Didn't anticipate the enemy would be well trained and equipped? Or anticipate how many casualties the Divisions would take in the midst of the fighting? We have already lost the use of the Lynstas Light and the 9th Heavies. And the entire 4th Rifles are gone." Mk'Fedan's voice was quiet and restrained as he spoke. This gave it even more of a deadly tone. Only the fact it could earn him the sharp end of a firing squad stopped him from being more to-the-point and aggressive in his words.

"We can't feasibly bring the back at the moment. As D'merche had said, the roads are blocked. We can't consider an airlift whilst the enemy fire is so intense. They have some Hydra flak tanks or quad autocannons and are making life a tad hairy for our pilots."

"But nor can we leave our valiant troops unsupported at the front. Some effort must be made to reinforce them to aid in the evacuation of the wounded." General Mareven, absent from so many officer briefings of late, spoke up. The tough Cadian had, using sheer dint of personality and loyalty of his men, managed to get out to the Main Spine to command his forces in person, to the respect of many. "We need to force a route through with armour, and make the most of air cover whilst we have it."

Thorans, Thracians, Dramarians and Garrowans all around the room cried out in protest. A few small arguments broke out between the assembled officers, all members of the general staff as most combat officers were away with their regiments. These were the men who had been working tirelessly, getting orders to and from the units in the field, often going out in person to ensure their safe arrival.

"That is enough! You are all officers and will act appropriately!" Mk'Fedan bellowed. Having allowed his own temper to break before in front of the Cadians, he would not allow anyone else to make his mistake and possibly pay the price.

"General Mareven has a good point. If we attempted to pull back now, our forces would face annihilation whilst they waited in convoy. We have a duty to allow the wounded time to escape. If armour can force a way that the infantry cannot, they should push forward without delay," he finished. Some officers agreed verbally, mostly his own Garrowans, with a mix of others.

"There will be no armour. The tanks must protect the factorums. Especially now," Faulin stated bluntly, trying to sound forceful and brooking no argument.

He had some anyway.

"Surely there must be some spare?" a PDF Colonel asked aghast.

"Not one single tank will leave its current position. You have armour at the front, we cannot spare more. Make the most of the advantages you have" Faulin tried in vain.

"The armour _is _the only advantage we have! We need the bulk of them at the front!" Cartel snarled. The vast majority of his Dramarian armour, possibly the most skilled armour crews present on world, were sitting idly by.

"You heard the Lord General!" the lone remaining PDF general snapped. General Githane was a cautious man when it came to actual combat, but in tactical briefs never quite knew when to back down or when to speak up.

"Who made you his lackey?" Cartel snapped.

"Go and screw yourself, trench-boy. We can fight without your dirty-brown jokers."

Again the meeting erupted, Faulin either unwilling or unable to stop them.

"That is it! My men will pull back as soon as they are able. We hold the enemy off until then, and then we fall back." Demerche spoke for the Elysian contingent. His entire command cadre stood as the general lifted himself to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Mareven asked gently, violet eyes worried now.

A commissar at the back of the room moved his hand to his pistol, but even Faulin knew better and quickly shook his head. The hand went back behind the long storm coat.

"I'm joining my men at the front. They need their senior officers more than ever. And every extra lasgun is one to hold off the enemy. If you need me, you can find me there," the Drop-troop commander spoke bitterly.

"You know my orders about senior staff serving at th…" Faulin began but Demerche had simply walked out.

"I'm going as well. The Bravers have a reputation to keep, and I will be there when they do," M'sade added, standing.

"As am I"

"And I" Mk'Fedan and Cartel added their voices to the fray once again. The Thracians went too. Even various Cadian commanders looked to their side arms and chronometers, and brought themselves to their feet. They were some of the toughest soldiers in the galaxy and sitting doing nothing because their general ordered it didn't sit very well with them. The men all filed out.

"I believe our own will want to see their commanders, my Lord," Mareven said respectfully.

"Sit down, Mareven. Learn nothing from those officers other than how not to behave," Tollin said imperiously.

"Do not lecture me, you snivelling slime ball. I don't care whose arse your head is up, just make sure I don't have to hear you speak whilst it's up there."

"Mareven, you will remain here and you will apologise to General Tollin. It is unseemly to speak to another officer like that," Faulin blurted in shock.

"I don't think so." The grizzled veteran of Kasr Tyrok marched smartly out the door, where Mk'Fedan was standing waiting in the hall. Cartel was beaming.

"That was damned finely said, General."

"I have had enough of his nonsense. We Cadians are nothing like that, and when we get back I will speak to my good friend the Lord Creed. I will see Faulin ruined."

"Now that is something I would love to see."

* * *

"The General is on his way. We are to hold for as long as possible, sir. No armour support incoming!" Mk'Hellin took the earpiece from the vox-caster away from his ear and shouted over to Macara.

"Fantastic. Absolutely wonderful. Great!" Macara snarled, ejecting yet another spent clip from his laspistol. His bolter was out, and he had had no opportunity to get more ammunition, so had fallen back to his secondary weapon. "Captain Mk'Shae?" the colonel called down his short-range micro-bead.

"_Sir_?"

"Take the Grenadier Company and move to the centre of our line. I'll get Mc'Veigh to fill in the space you've left. We are going to take those building across the main street. If we clear that enfilade they've got, we'll have some breathing room." Macara gave his orders even as he sought cover from the fusillade cutting across the ruined highway.

"_At once, sir. We'll pull out as he covers us,_" Mk'Shae's gruff voice, ever bitter sounding, came back.

"_On our way colonel,_" Mc'Veigh's own voice rang back, his tone always lighter and the more sing-song voice of the valley folk. Macara redirected his orders.

"I want 3, 5 and 7 Company behind them, leave 6 and Light in reserve. They've earned it."

"_At once, sir,"_ Mc'Neroy, 5 Coy's commander, replied enthusiastically.

"_Right away, sir,"_ Captain Masen of 7 Coy responded with equal vigour.

Dyort barely acknowledged the order.

Macara turned to watch his men as they began filing past. They were bone weary and covered in dirt and gore. They had been fighting almost without pause for ninety-two hours. Almost four days without rotation. That wasn't good for anyone's moral.

And yet here and there, men grinned as they heard crude jokes, bantered and cajoled with each other.

"Major Cairns, take command of the holding Companies. Give us covering fire. Make sure Lieutenant Mk'Bratney's heavy weapons are evenly distributed to offer adequate crew-served support."

There was a brief pause of static before the vox crackled, Cairn's voice on the other end.

"_I would remind you sir, that you should stay with the other six companies and allow your subordinate to go forwards. But I reckon you'd ignore me._"

Macara smiled grimly. "You'd be correct, major. Now, covering fire when I ask?"

"_Yes, sir, of course,_" Cairns gave the affirmative. "_What is it you are planning?_"

"Wait and see. Out," Macara said. The Colonel looked around himself, trying to find his adjutant. It only took a second or two to identify the bulky frame of the Corporal. "Kallum, we seem to be on a large drumlin here, aren't we?" Macara asked.

"I doubt it's a drumlin, sir. This world hasn't had an ice age. Ever. But there is a reverse side of a slope about two hundred yards that way," the Corporal pointed. Macara just glowered at him.

"You know what I meant."

"Well then, yes, sir there is. About two hundred yards that way," Kallum grinned widely, the grime on his face cracking into crazy shapes with the motion.

"And how the hell did you learn so much about their geology?" Macara snapped. The corporal kept smiling

"Just seemed wise to learn up about the place we were visiting, sir! That, and I found an old travel guide under the cot in your quarters." The grin widened, white teeth showing against dirty skin again. This prompted Macara to speak again.

"Do you ever do anything except smile like a demented gretchin, corporal?"

"I can do the odd bit of fighting, in a scrap, sir."

"Well, makes up for the lack of intelligence," Macara said, turning his head to mask his own broad smile.

"Sir, I must protest. That's not very nice now, is it?"

"Corporal, surely you remember what the Uplifting Primer states about a soldier who complains about his treatment by officers?" the colonel asked as straight faced as he could.

"Something finishing with a beating from said officer, sir?" Kallum replied, only partly in jest.

"Get to the command section and get them ready to move out," Macara finished, turning serious again. He checked his own webbing as the corporal went loping off. He had fresh bolter clips in most of the pouches, those empty ones like that through a lack of supplies from the rear. Not a good situation.

Reaching down, the Garrowan colonel ripped some dirty fabric from a dead Legionnaire to try and wipe some of the burnt blood from his blade. He made his way to the command group as he went. Knots of men from the Grenadier Company moved around them, slipping through the ruins and getting into the best positions to advance from.

"Fix bayonets," Macara spoke into his microbead. Silver glinted around him as long bayonets were fitted to their lugs.

His squad reached the edge of the wide highway, little groups of men hidden all around. The odd lasbolt punctuated the great sentences of the distant artillery. As soon as they saw the colours their salvos increased, peppering the ruined habs with firepower. The Garrowan assault groups crouched deeper into the cover, as deep as they could manage. A man from the Grenadiers lost the majority of his arm from the elbow as a stray las shot found his spot. In pain and shock he staggered to his feet, and before his brain could recover long enough to activate his survival instinct, he was picked apart by lasgun fire, a fine mist of blood and pulped organs spraying around.

"Throne!" Sergeant Mulcahy spat as his face was covered by the red rain.

Macara clicked his microbead once again.

"Now."

From the habs behind him, heavy bolters and autocannons opened up with their large calibre rounds, stitching them across the facades of the opposite buildings. Pieces of rockcrete tumbled to the ground, and whilst the Legionnaires returned fire, it was desultory by comparison. The hellguns of the support companies joined in and made the opposite side of the road a very dangerous place to be.

"Up Garrowans!" Macara bellowed. "Take them! Charge!" Sabre held aloft, the colonel dashed from cover, his command squad going with him. Men leapt over rubble and broken walls, screaming as they went. They didn't stop to fire, their support seeing to the job of keeping their comrades alive. Almost a thousand men were bolting for the relative safety of the far side, the return fire falling ineffectually amongst them. Here and there a Garrowan went down, but there was no time to stop for them.

Macara was right at the front, as usual. Behind him poured the large, strong men of the Grenadier Company, his own Command group mixed amongst them as they charged. It was not a tactical manoeuvre nor the best thought out – it was simply a headlong rush to the other side. But in the present situation, there was nothing else for it.

The colonel flew through the broken door of the first hab. He fired his bolt pistol into the dark room until the clip was empty. Chunks of wall flew by, something wet hit the ground with aloud thump and the smell of blood filled his nostrils.

Macara swept his sword out to the right as a Legionnaire ran through a side door from another room, the archenemy soldier falling headless before he knew what had happened. As he stepped forward to clear the room he was already in, he felt his right boot slide through the blood of his opponent, even the heat of the blade not enough to cauterise the massive wound.

Behind him Miskelly, Misfinnin, Felton and Sergeant Major Mk'Askill crashed into the room with a tangle of Grenadiers. Kallum grabbed two of them and went to clear the said room. Macara's vox officer staggered in a moment later, his helmet lost somewhere in the mad dash. Macara pointed into the corridor where the staircase was, and Misfinnin stepped forwards.

"Fire in the hole!" the trooper called as he tossed a frag into the opening. There was a muffled crump that caused dust to fall from the walls, and then the Garrowans were crashing into the hallway and making for the stairs. The colonel led the rush, desperate to get to the next landing before any enemy troopers appeared.

A shot came down the staircase, just missing his heading and killing trooper Mk'Garder behind him. The Grenadier's body slumped, blocking the stairs for a moment and he heard Mk'Hellin swear as the Corproal tried to keep up.

A Legionnaire stood at the head of the first landing, a weapon combining axe and scythe in his hands. Macara brought his sword to a good thrusting position, but knew he would never make it to the top in time to stop his head being caved in by the enemy's massive swing. He gritted his teeth even as he thrust the power blade forwards.

As he reached the top, his blood-slicked boot gave way and he tumbled forwards, ribs cracking painfully on the top step.

The Legionnaire roared in fury as his axe-scythe became stuck in the thin wall beside the location Macara's head would have been. He jerked back and forth on the handle of the weapon until it came free, taking three last shots from Mk'Hellin in the chest. He still didn't fall, although blood was starting to coat his khaki-cream tunic through the broken armour plates. The massive enemy threw the axe-scythe down the stair case and Trooper Felton from the colour party took the wicked curved blade in the chest. The impact drove the other men behind him crashing down the stairs, and only Mk'Hellin and one other remained unscathed.

In the second his attention was diverted, Macara brought the power blade up in a back-hand slash, cleaving the Legion soldier from groin to neck, stinking bowels and entrails spilling out across the floor a moment after Macara staggered to his feet. The colonel only just avoided the small waterfall of gore that covered the stairs.

Macara charged into the first dorm on this landing, a room that overlooked the highway.

He came to a sudden halt, as he faced at least seven enemy soldiers, in various stages of firing out the windows and turning to fight the new invaders.

Without thinking, the colonel thrust his bolt pistol forward and pulled the trigger until the weapon clacked on an empty magazine. Bloody limbs and exploded torsos filled the charnel house the room had just become as the exploding bolts reaped their fearsome tally, but Macara's weapon was now empty and the survivors opened fire.

Macara threw himself wildly back through the door, landing right on the ribs he'd already hurt, driving the air from his lungs.

Mk'Hellin and some Grenadiers, including Trooper Cobain and Sergeant Mc'Killian as far as he could tell, charged past. Their weapons gutted the room, the enemy survivors wilting under the fusillade.

Macara was yanked unceremoniously to his feet. Corporal Kallum shook his head in mock exasperation. Macara was confused, as the corporal hadn't come up the stairs but had come from…

Of course! The corporal had led a party through the other rooms, and must have found another staircase. Garrowans were filling the floor now, clearing dorm blocks one by one.

"Up, up!" Macara pointed at the staircase. "Clear the rest of the hab!" he coughed the order out. Troopers nodded and made for the steps once more. The sound of fighting could already be heard on the next floor.

"Those were some good reflexes at the head of the staircase, sir," trooper Misfinnin remarked, smiling slightly as he passed Macara's pistol back to him.

"Oh no, the colonel didn't duck that swipe, he slipped!" Kallum laughed. He saw the look on Macara's face. "No, really, I saw it as I came tearing along the corridor to help. 'Whoops' and down he wen…"

"Thank you corporal. Get on with it," Macara said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He watched his men fill the rooms, clearing them. The firing from above was lessening, and outside the sounds of fighting were dying down. The fire of the heavy weapons was totally gone, Mk'Bratney knowing his role well and not allowing the chance for any of his mates to die in friendly fire.

"Sergeant Mc'Carthy, have the upper floors been cleared yet?"

"Just finishing it now, sir," the Grenadier replied. He had a gloriously big moustache, and a distinct lack of a neck protruded from his powerful shoulder. His bayonet was caked with viscera.

"Good, take your squad and help out. Vox Captain Mk'Shae and let him know where we are.

"Yes, sir," the bluff sergeant replied. He rounded up his nearest men and started up the stairs. Macara sheathed his sword, and rammed a new clip home into his bolt pistol. He breathed heavily for a few moments, thinking on just how close he had come to losing his head. It had been too close on this occasion.

The tall figure of Kallum approached again. "This floor is all clear, sir. Looks like the same is happening in the adjacent habs too."

"Very good. How's the butcher's bill?" Macara asked wearily.

"In this building, nine dead and about double injured. Could be a lot worse for a storm," His adjutant stated. "No idea on figures from the surrounding area yet."

"Kallum, get across to the dressing station and bring some stretcher bearers and a medic to this building. We'll make this a clearing station."

"Can't I just vox, sir?"

"I'm sending you because I want it done quickly, okay? And no, you don't ask permission from your commanding officer, you do as you're told or I'll hand you over to Klousour. Get me?" Macara snapped. Kallum, realising he had gotten a little too familiar in the heat of the moment, nodded crisply.

"Yes, sir. Sorry sir." He loped off down the stairs.

Macara was exhausted, and normally would have controlled that situation better. But adrenaline combined with tiredness was setting him completely on edge.

Lack of adequate armour support wasn't helping. Nor was Faulin's incompetent command.

"_Sir, you really need to come and see this,_" Mc'Carthy's voice voxed through his ear.

"On my way. Where are you?"

"_Top floor, sir,_" the sergeant replied.

"Mk'Hellin, with me," Macara called and the corporal doubled over to him. "Let's go."

* * *

"How much longer are we going to have to wait?" I thought you said you had made progress?" Kopar asked the lexmechanic.

"I have broken three of the nine security codes, my lord. It will take at least a day to crack the remaining codes."

"What? You have been here for four already!" the Inquisitor snarled.

"It took three alone to break the first combination. I have the pattern now, my lord, and they are falling one-by-one, in a much faster rate," the lexmechanic explained nervously.

"Twenty-four hours. Then you will be taken into custody by my acolytes, for every hour I need to wait after that, you will have one plug removed from your cranium." Kopar gestured at the data-ports surgically installed on the man's skull. The lexmechanic looked around in panic as several of Kopar's followers smiled cruelly.

"Now, get to work," Kopar said as he strode off. He made his way to where one of his chief Interrogators was sitting, adjusting the power unit of his double-edged blade. Beside him sat an archaic but intricate vox-pack, far beyond the crude ones used by the Guard.

"Githerin, contact that fool Faulin for me."

"At once, my lord," the robed man said. He turned to the vox and started twiddling with buttons and knobs. At intervals, he spoke a code name, before fiddling again. It took a moment, but eventually Faulin's pompous voice came through the speaker.

"_Yes_?"

"This is Inquisitor Kopar," the man said after taking the speaker from his acolyte.

"_H..how can I help you?_" Faulin sounded worried now, some bluster gone.

"The enemy is massing and pushing your troops back General. I need some men to protect the cathedral district until we have what we need." Kopar replied.

"_How many men do you require?_" Faulin asked, voice shaky.

"How about a crusade force, you dolt? As we don't have that, I'll make do with a couple of thousand."

"_I cannot provide that, all our troops are on the line fighting!"_

"Do it, General, or your commanders find out why they are really here. And why you have sacrificed almost a million men on a rumour."

"_You commanded me to do so!_" Faulin sounded as if someone had just grabbed his balls. Tightly.

"I don't remember any such occurrence. And I am sure you would not openly disagree with a member of the Inquisition. Now send me. The. Men." Kopar hissed the last part.

"The only unit anywhere nearby would be the Thoran 67th, and some of those Garrowan barbarians."

"They shall have to do. Send them to me," Kopar finished, turning off the vox before the Lord General could reply, before returning to the lexmechanic.

"You have an extra six hours. Now get it done."

* * *

The building was taller than Macara had first thought. He had gone for at least four stories and had no sign of the top. Mk'Hellin, lugging the heavy vox-pack, was panting like mad.

"You need to get fitter," Macara said, only part in jest.

"Yes, sir." The vox corporal wheezed.

It took another solid five minutes of bounding up the stair, and seven more floors, before they reached the top of the hab block.

They went in to the nearest dorm, to find Mc'Carthey and most of his squad, at a window overlooking the rest of the city, from the natural viewpoint of Kallum's not-quite-drumlin. The men all stood in mute horror, Mc'Carthey clutching some magnoculars to his chest.

"What is it, sergeant?"

"Take a look, colonel." Mc'Carthey replied, handing the magnoculars over. Macara walked to the window.

He hardly needed the spotters' glasses. The hill dropped away just in front of them as the steep streets plummeted into the next sector. It was a great view, or at least would have been before the war.

From here he could make out the extent of the enemy. Artillery positions coughed from at least five miles away. Columns of armour filled the streets and main thorough-fares. Thousands of oil can fires showed where the enemy was waiting their chance to advance and join the fight. Smoke filled the air. He imagined, a rough estimate based on experience, the number of men round each fire, multiplied by the number of fires. It was a startling number.

Amongst the enemy armour, he could have sworn he saw something large, tank sized, scuttling about, but the smog obscured his view.

And worse still, closer to his position, he could see huge formations of cultists and Legion of Narcissus soldiers drawing close to the foot of the hill. The streets were thronged with them, braying for blood and ecstasy in equal amount. Amidst them, tanks moved in the direction of his command. Four, five at least. Mc'Carthey's men pointed as they saw more. Must be at least two companies, coming his way.

"Missile launcher teams to this line of habs, at the double!" he voxed. "Get the lascannons stationed back where they were, across the highway. That's the fall back position."

"_What's_ _wrong_, _sir_?" Cairns replied, hearing the urgency in Macara's voice.

"Tanks, at least thirty."

"_Shit_."

"My sentiments exactly. Get the men dug in and ready, this could get bad. Send to the other formations in the brigade – we're about to be overrun."

"By the Throne!" Cairns whispered back.

"I'll get us out of this, Faolan, don't worry. Macara out."

"_Out_."

"Mk'Hellin, get me through to the General," Macara ordered. The corporal didn't need to ask which one.

Looking out again, Macara realised the Imperial task force would be doomed unless it concentrated back to the main spine. There wasn't much they could do if the enemy marched on them in full force, in their current positions.

"Got the General on the master vox, sir." He handed over the vox horn in what was becoming a muscle memory action.

* * *

"Sir, we can't go any further." The Salamander driver turned to Mk'Fedan. He, and the three tanks of the 1st Household Cavalry he had managed to purloin, had come to a halt. Guardsmen were pouring back along the main streets. Stretcher bearers carried the less injured men, Chimeras and halftracks lifting the more debilitated Guardsmen.

"Can you go round?"

"Sorry, sir. The buildings here are quite strong. We'd have to be rough to break them and we'd risk injuring the men nearby," the driver said, shoulders slumped.

"Okay. Take that side-street, there, to the left. According to the map, if we follow it along for a half mile, we'll come across another main road." Mk'Fedan suggested.

"That road will probably be blocked too, sir," one of the staff officers with him said.

"It'll be better than sitting here, stuck amongst the wounded."

"Fair point, sir," The major conceded.

"Sir, vox for you!" the command vehicles' radio man.

"Go ahead."

"Colonel Macara wants you to know he has the main enemy force in sight. Huge numbers of armoured vehicles and vast formations of infantry."

"Pass it here, son," The grizzled general said, taking the vox horn. "Go ahead, Daine, what's your appraisal."

"_Good to hear you, sir. We need more armour, now. More infantry support would be good. Hell, even some navy chaps in those fighters of theirs! It's the only way we can make it through this with any sort of chance to make it back_."

"What about your position, can you hold the line?" the general continued. There was a brief pause, and Mk'Fedan looked to the vox man to see if the link was still live. Then Macara spoke.

"_No_."

Mk'Fedan knew Macara, and the 5th, and knew that if Macara could have held, he would have said as much. He wasn't for exaggerating in order to drum up more troops.

"_Can we begin our withdrawal, sir?_" the colonel spoke again.

Mk'Fedan rubbed his face. He breathed deeply before replying.

"The roads are completely blocked – it's why I am not with you already. You'll have to hold for at least two hours until I can clear a space for your forces to retreat through. Someone will need to be a rearguard, because your own men _will_ block these roads as it stands. I'll see if I can send you some air support," Mk'Fedan sounded frustrated, and hoped Macara could tell how genuine he was.

"_We'll do what we have to, sir. See you soon. For Garrowa, for the Bl…_" the colonel went silent.

"Son?" Mk'Fedan looks at the comms officer.

"Signals gone dead, sir."

Mk'Fedan nodded, picking up a troop location data slate and started making adjustments. "He'll be fine. He'll hold. I know Daine. He'll hold."


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"The Loyalist lines are failing, Praefectus. The Storm Kohorts have broken through in several locations." The Kohortus spoke, personally delighted he was able to bring the Evocatae Praefectus better news than the last man to hold his rank. That unfortunate hadn't survived long enough to reach the Clawed Fiend after the Evocatae's slaves were done. "We have breached the line in the northern quadrant with Storm Kohorts and are punching through with little resistance. Imperial units there are in full retreat. The city landing fields are again in our hands. The defenders there were lightly armed drop troops and have been annihilated."

The Evocatae Praefectus nodded, his helmet moving just enough to be perceptible. "Good. And what of the area just across the river, in the direction of the warehouse sector?"

"We have encountered fierce resistance along the river bank, lord, but even that is crumbling. Storm Kohorts are breaking them, though it is costing us greatly in cultists and legionaries," The kohortus replied.

"I don't care, just finish them off. We only need to pin them here long enough for our other forces to arrive." The Legion general rasped through his mouth grill.

"There is one factor in their favour, lord," The kohortus risked.

"Yes?"

"Their air cover, lord. They are surviving through its use. We need to be able to take it out somehow. Some ritual, perhaps, summon something that can…"

There's was a hard 'clunk' as the haft of the general's scythe battered into the kohortus' own helmet, knocking him down.

"We do not make demands of the empyrean. We serve them and if they decide we require aid, they will send some. You wish to know how to limit their air power? Get so close to them that they cannot risk using it. Grab them by the belt buckle and hold them so close that they cannot flee far enough to be safe from their own bombs."

"Yes..my…lord," the officer stammered as he breathed deeply.

"I am sending in some senturies of Praefectus and auxillia. They will spearhead your attacks and break the last resistance. Have cultists ready to chase the Imperial degenerates down once they rout and harry them all the way to the main spine."

"Yes, lord," The kohortus regained his feet, before making the ritual salute and striding away.

The Evocatae Praefectus issued some commands to the nearest officer and several Praefectii juniors hurried away towards the rear. The plan was working, the Imperial forces were in disarray and his elevation to yet higher rank was assured.

* * *

"Keep steady. Hold," Captain Mk'Neroy whispered to the men of the Light Company. They were spread amongst piled rubble and debris on the regiments left flank, amidst what had been some sort of construction yard beginning work on new habs or maybe some warehouses. Rockcrete and plasteel girders lay everywhere, building foundations now just bombed out shells. Scattered about in small groups, no longer a cogent fighting force, his men had fallen back. A dedicated attack would roll right over them.

More legionaries filed into the debris field. Not as many as those storming the main Garrowan positions a few hundred yards along, but still a good sized force. They did not advance carefully or cautiously. They had seen the thin line of crimson Garrowans with their odd green shoulder stripe break and disperse, and knew they had taken the flank. They pursued a ragged group who fled in the open, sprinting for cover on the far side of the building zone.

"Wait for it," Mk'Neroy hissed. Still no armour pressed this way, only infantry. He waited until another twenty or so had gone past his leading positions.

"Take them."

Garrowan Light troops broke from hiding, standing from their cover and taking shots they had been sighting for several minutes, each shot dropping an enemy before he could react.

The three hundred and twenty two remaining men of his company made their presence felt. Even as they fired, Mk'Neroy's men were displacing. Several were down already, but they reaped a fearsome toll from the Legion troops. The chaos infantry returned fire, shocked by the sudden swing in fortune, but their shots were wild and the Light troops well concealed. Within moments, none were left alive in the wide construction yard, maybe three hundred more bodies adding to the hundreds already there. More were beginning to attack, having seen their comrade's fates and were not walking blindly into it. But that was fine, as the heavy bolters sited slightly higher up opened up in return, giving the Coy enough time to reposition themselves to defend against this new attack.

Mk'Neroy smiled grimly – his company's job on the field of battle was to skirmish forward ahead of the main Garrowan lines, whittle down the enemy, before joining the line. His troopers were not the biggest and strongest, like Mk'Shae's Grenadiers, but they prided themselves on being the _smartest_. They were more trained in small unit tactics and skirmishing than the battalion companies of Heavy Infantry regiments, and Mk'Neroy was skilled in their use from decades as a Light officer.

"Push forward ad form up, give them a few minutes of firefight, then scatter into the yard again," he voxed his troopers. "Let's see if we can manage this a fourth time."

* * *

"Ease!" Trooper Glorn shouted. The missile shrieked towards the dirty-cream hull of the traitor battle tank. Explosive fire blossomed as the shell pierced the thinner armour where the turret met the ring, and struck the magazine. Debris showered all around, pieces of white hot metal whirring like hornets. It was the third tank he had killed in the last half hour.

The thirty tanks originally spotted had only been the start, as light APCs like the Taurox, Chimeras, Leman Russ of all variants and locally produced MBTs seemed to spawn from all the dark recesses nearby.

Most of the heavy weapons teams wielding missile launchers or lascannons had made several kills, and the hulls of over thirty vehicles lay smoking and choking up the streets. But more still pressed in as raptured cultists and silent Legionaries came pressing on behind, filing round the wrecks and throwing themselves at the Imperials.

Glorn banged another rocket into a rusting halftrack which crumpled under the detonation.

Despite the smoke, the explosions, the death, the 5th were fighting a withdrawal and acting as rearguard for the brigade. No longer could they hold the line against the forces arrayed against them. Macara's ad hoc formation was in full flight, ordered to withdraw at last by main spine command. Even the Commissars couldn't do anything about this one. This brigade one was one of the last to pull back, many others already safely regrouped in the 'safe' zones. Amidst the ruined habs, in the streets and around the wrecks the troopers of the 5th were battling the foot troops of the archenemy. Macara was in the thick of it with his Battalion Companies, and it was up to the heavy weapons platoons under Lieutenant Robirsen to keep the armour as far back as possible.

"Ease!" Glorn hollered once more. This missile struck a Leman Russ square in the side armour, just to the side of the sponson. There was a jet of flame, but the tank rumbled on unfazed. The heavy bolter mount spat up at his position, but Glorn had already displaced to another broken windowsill.

"Dennan, get another shot on that tank!" the trooper screamed out the window to another Garrowan maybe ten yards from his position, much closer to the tank. A thickset man carrying a chunky meltagun nodded briskly and dashed forward a couple of steps. As soon as he was close enough as he could risk, he pulled the trigger and a beam of superheated energy flared towards the Russ, scorching the very air around it.

Paint sloughed off the armour like water before the metal itself began to warp and buckled, bubbling like soup on a fire. A bright glow lit the front facing of the tank for a moment, and as it died a large, perfect hole had been melted in the front. The tank wasn't moving and steam rose from inside. Of the crew there was no sight or sound. The other men of Dennan's section cheered and Glorn's own group grinned too, when Glorn noticed another MBT traversing directly at them, barrel point right at the window he was at.

"Thorne! Get out now!" Glorn screamed as he moved to throw himself out the window. The tank shell was faster and the trooper could actually see it hitting the ceiling and detonating a millisecond before the whole scene erupted in a cloud of dust, heat and shrapnel as the blast set off every unused missile in the room and vaporising every man inside, the shockwave covering the men directly outside in tons of rubble.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Macara yelled over the noise of the explosion. Bits of masonry rubble had reached even his position.

"No idea, Nate," Cairns replied, firing his bolt pistol into a crowd of Legionnaires. "But it wasn't good!"

"Sir, that _was_ Third battery. They're all gone," Mk'Hellin called over, face aghast.

"Damn it. We've no one else on that flank. Can we get Fifth battery to displace and make for that area?" the colonel thought quickly.

"Fifth battery are pinned down and having to spike their guns and missile tubes," The corporal answered quickly.

A section from Second Coy dashed past the colonel, scything through some cultists and pushing back a group of Legionnaires trying to take advantage of cover. Macara was thinking hard on what to do now, the best way to extricate the battalion without it getting wiped out.

Captain Mc'Veigh's Second Company was bearing the brunt of the current attack, and were coping admirably. Fourth and Seventh had their flanks and were resisting hard with every yard they gave up. Mk'Neroy was holding up well to the battalion's right, using the cover to their benefit and pulling Legionnaires out of position before slaughtering them amidst the rubble.

Another enemy tank broke through the side of a hab unit and its cannon roared. Somewhere behind the colonel, more Garrowan lives ended.

"Break away and withdraw. Weapons teams first and then start moving the companies back. I want to get Thir…"

Macara was thrown to his face as a las-round smacked audibly into his shoulder guard. The colonel's head hit the ground hard as he went down. Las rounds filled the space above his headquarters platoon and the men of Second Coy as yet another hab blocked seemed to birth cultists and legionaries.

The command section scattered into the nearest cover, Macara lying prone on the ground.

Several sections swung round almost instantly and returned fire, chewing up the front of the building but the chaos had the drop on them. They had made their way into one of the multi-storied hab blocks and were now enfilading the Garrowans. Red-and-grey bodies began falling under the fusillade.

"Get me some grenade launchers, now!" Cairns bellowed. Several troopers moved his way, ducking and dodging between cover. Troopers Faire, Mk'Vega and Mc'Grithiss crashed down beside him, burrowing behind stacks of rubble as traitor guns tried to pick them out.

"See that hab block? I want you to empty your clips through the windows. Go with hi-ex. We need to silence those flankers or they'll pin us down." The major ordered. The three men nodded and moved to positions were they could unload accurately.

Cairns called to the sections nearest him. "Ok, I want you to open fire on those windows and kept their heads down! Pick your shots and let loose!"

As the Garrowans opened up, the three troopers with launchers stood from cover and, judging their shots almost to perfection, began _thunking_ shots through the window of the hab block.

Smoke billowed from windows, occasionally a body or limb flew out and the rate of fire dramatically decreased.

Cairns looked around and saw the enemy slacking off in their efforts, presumably waiting for their armour to manage the assault course of wreckage.

"Captain Mc'Veigh, pull your men back now. Make use of the lull. Go!" Cairns ordered quickly.

Mc'Veigh replied quickly. "What about the colonel?"

Cairns looked back to where Macara was, unmoving. "I've got it in hand. Move out, captain!"

"_Yes, sir."_

Cairns turned to the dispersed members of Macara's headquarters.

"Mk'Askill, Miskelly, go and grab the colonel, quickly!" he ordered. The two NCOs nodded, but even as they tried to move, more lasfire from the enemy positions was starting to bracket them again.

All the while, Macara lay unmoving on the broken road.

* * *

"Bring in some aircover in this grid, a full bombing run. Hold the Legion at bay long enough for our troops to fall back to the pre-established positions," Faulin was rattling out orders. The general staff, and the other Guard commanders, were all working together to try and get their men out of a dire situation. If nothing else could be said for Faulin, he was a good administrator and was a veteran commander, if an arrogant one. So far his desperate organisation of airstrikes and Valkyrie lifts were working well to evacuate men, and almost making up for the fact the entire situation was _his_ fault.

Almost.

"Marauder squadrons to bomb the area. Try to keep blue-on-blue to a minimum, but it is imperative to halt the enemies advance long enough for the majority of forces to regroup," The Lord General spoke quickly but firmly to an adjutant.

"Yes my Lord."

At the other side of the room, Mk'Fedan had been given, to his surprise, operational command of the ground forces. He would have loved to think this was solely down to his proficiency at troop command, but he couldn't help but feel he would end up as a scapegoat if everything went wrong.

"He's certainly putting in the effort now," M'sade spoke quietly. Mk'Fedan hadn't even noticed the stocky general approaching."

"Covering his arse, I'll bet. Now he can say he orchestrated the miraculous escape of his ambushed crusade force," Mk'Fedan stated cynically. The Thoran commander nodded.

"We could do with some of our Airborne here. Those Elysian boys are alright, but the Thoran Dragoons are tough as ork hide. Imagine a Braver crazy enough to jump out of Valkyries." M'sade stated with more than a little bias.

Mk'Fedan took a moment and rubbed a hand over his head, breathing out. His head was full of tactical dispositions and rally points, but right now there wasn't much more he could achieve at his tactical station. He indulged his curiosity.

"Why 'Bravers', General?"

M'sade smiled thinly "It was a derogatory term for us. The majority of our troopers jump out of aircraft into enemy territory whilst the infantry advance as normal, behind waves of armour. So the Airborne took to mocking the infantry – they must be so much braver fighting behind the big battle tanks and trenches. Completely sarcastic."

"You said 'was'?" Mk'Fedan asked, already guessing it wasn't any more.

"Well, after one particular battle versus the greenskin menace, our Dragoons had been overrun and their light equipment unable to stem the enemy. They retreated en mass towards some infantry positions. The infantry advanced into the attack and drove the orks back, acting as a spearhead for other Guard forces. They received it as an honour on their standard, and when they did the regiments all decided to take the name 'Bravers' under their regimental number, to remember the day they were braver than the Dragoons," M'sade finished. He smiled at that thought, and Mk'Fedan gave a chuckle.

"Sounds like we could do with more of those blokes, never mind the Dragoons."

Both men turned as they heard Faulin snap at an aide.

"What do you mean, he wants me now?" the general said before remembering where he was. He looked around the suddenly quiet strategium, before speaking again. "Gentlemen, I have a matter to attend to. I will return shortly."

With nothing more, he strode from the room, two Kasrkin guards outside falling in behind him and following him along.

"What do you think that was all about?" M'sade asked, his dark skin creased in a sneer.

"When you gotta go, you gotta go?" Mk'Fedan shrugged in response.

* * *

_The metal warrior stood frozen before Macara on the duty plain once more. Its eyes glowed eerily but it made no movements._

_Help us help us help us_

_The voices pierced his head once more. Macara looked around to try and find a source, but again only shadows danced around his vision._

"_Enough games, tell me what you want from me!" he bellowed. There was genuine fury in his voice._

_The shadows stopped prancing, going stock still. Macara tried to look at them but still they vanished as soon as his eyes hit their location._

_As he faced his front again, he started. A pure white face, leering in a demented smile, was inches from his own._

"_Stop him" it said, before vanishing in a heartbeat._

_Macara was face to face with the frozen metal warrior again. Still, those eyes glowed eerily as…_

_The thing's arm shot up, hand clamping around Macara's throat and twisting in a brutal snap…_

* * *

"We need to get the colonel!" Cairns called again. Macara moved slightly as the major shouted. The enemy lasfire intensified as they saw the moement.

Kallum dashed from behind a ruined chimera, ducking twice as his great frame became a new target, as he sped for his colonel. The giant corporal slid into cover feet away from the stricken colonel, waiting a moment as he heard Cairns screaming for some covering fire. Hellgun rounds snapped at the windows and Kallum saw the gap he needed. He stood once more, stepped into the open and dragged Macara's struggling form next to the major piece of cover he could find.

"Sir, are you alright? Sir?" he barked, inches from Macara's face.

Macara looked at him, though his eyes were unfocussed. It took a second or two, and then the colonel's pupils came to the correct size and he recognised the NCO.

"Stop shouting in my face, Kallum, and if you'd kindly stop cradling me like a bairn that would be good."

"Yes sir, of course sir," Kallum said quickly, hiding a genuine glint of relief from his face. He dropped Macara, who thudded to the floor.

"I didn't say drop me you idiot," Macara croaked. Sitting up, he felt his head for any wound. All Kallum could see was a small bruise – not enough to have knocked him cold, yet that made no sense as the colonel had fairly whacked the roadway and gone limp.

His CO also didn't have a single serious open wound. Sure, the odd scrape or graze, but as normal, the colonel's luck had seen him go uninjured.

"We should get back to the men, sir."

"Absolutely, corporal. Let's go," Macara nodded. He staggered to his feet, adopting that awkward crouch soldiers have known for millennia as the "I wish I wasn't this tall", and then followed the corporal as they sprinted for Cairns' position.

Behind them, more Legionnaires were flooding past the vehicle wrecks. They were all heavily armoured, almost on a par with the Garrowans, and were coming in bigger and bigger numbers. Macara had already identified these as some sort of shock troop, like veterans or grenadiers. They had been seen in squads here and there, but now were contributing the majority of enemy forces. Macara reached his major, and a command group that all looked relieved to see he was ok. With a gesture, Macara had them moving swiftly back alongside 2 Coy.

"Daine, we're pulling back now as per your order. Enemy armour is flanking us, they've massed more troops than we can handle, and ammo is running low," Cairns spoke from his side, gesturing at the withdrawing men. They were moving in good order, sections covering each other as they moved, making sure there was constant firing at the Legion's shock troopers.

Macara nodded slowly. The headquarters group was moving back with some section of Mc'Veigh's company, and Macara looked around him. Well-disciplined and well organised even as they pulled back, the 5th were showing their mettle.

"How are the other units fairing?" he asked Cairns, who had spent the last few minutes on the vox, the black-garbed form of Klousour standing with him as they pulled back. Evidently making sure any withdrawal orders were from high command.

"The 92nd are suffering badly but have disengaged safely. The Cadians have managed to move most of their troops away, and only their reaguard units are still engaged. The Thorans are under contact as heavy as ours. It's bloody over there. Chief medic Darada has gotten our wounded out with the Dramarians and is escorting them back. We have air cover incoming though, next ten minutes."

The colonel nodded again. "Good. Keep the withdrawal going. Tell the men to get small when the air comes in."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir! Sir, we have an urgent message for you!" Mk'Hellin was shouting, suddenly. "Encrypted vox from command!" he called as he ran over. He flinched as an enemy tank round went off fifty yards away.

"So you think it's wise to yell that out, running across the street?" Macara yelled back.

"Ah, no, sir. Sorry, sir." The corporal looked sheepishly.

"Alright, go ahead," Macara relented.

Mk'Hellin looked at the data-slate he'd transcribed onto. "Transmission reads; 'Colonel Macara, make best time with available forces to the Cathedral situated near the Warehouse sector at three four niner alpha. Orders await you there. Do not contact anyone in high command, other than the Lord General regarding these orders.' Message ends. That's all, sir. But it's fully authenticated from Faulin."

"Damn and curse that idiot! Why the gak are we to head there? We have enough problems as it is!" Macara raged. He pulled a chart from his pack and Cairns and the commissar approached to look at it with him. Miskelly snapped off a speculative shot at some Legionnaires hiding behind a tank hull.

"It's a little off to the southwest of here, no?" Klousour asked

"Yes, about that direction," Macara pointed "but I don't know how…"

He was interrupted as las shots bracketed their position and his men moved again to find more cover. Mk'Askill organised some return fire from a section of 2 coy and some of Macara's own corporals as the officers spoke.

Macara continued a moment later "I don't know how we can get there, the way the enemy is positioned. It won't be easy."

"You have to do it none the less. It is orders from command," Klousour snapped.

"I know my duty, commissar. It's to fight and kill the Emperor's enemies. And I can't do that if I'm dead. I will handle this and complete my orders, you do your duty and inspire my men."

Klousour glared at him, but nodded and strode away. Within moments Macara could hear him bellowing 'inspiring' speeches from the uplifting primer.

Cairns pointed to the chart, "I'll get Mk'Shae's Grenadiers to spearhead the lateral movement, sir. B'cyver's Thorans are in that direction anyway, so he can be the vanguard. We'll force our way through as soon as the Marauders drop their loads."

"Get Mk'Neroy to support him. They always work well in tandem. I trust Mk'Neroy more than I trust myself." Macara said, which was high praise given that he had formally commanded the Light Company, many years ago.

Both men looked up suddenly as a new noise overcame the enemy. A low, rumbling murmur, almost like the noise an ork horde made before attacking. Growls and barked insults and even gnashing of teeth. A foul odour filled the air. A clink of chains and a heavy shuffling could be made out, too.

"What the Hell is going on?"

"No idea, Faolan. But I don't want to be here to find out."

Several battered apc's, stripped of weapons, broke through hab units and barged by the vehicles strewn around. The heaviest armoured Legionaries he had seen so far deployed out, taking up positions but no engaging. Rough carapace armour covered them head to toe, and gleaming metal helmets covering their heads. They seemed to be waiting on something.

It only took a moment for Macara to see what. The shuffling was dozens of lumbering, thickset abhumans. Chains bound them together, and on their backs were large chem-inhalers. Hoods covered their faces.

"Ogryns." Cairns breathed. All firing had stopped from both sides, almost as if a ceasefire had been agreed. The near-silence was odd after so many hours of straight fighting.

At the head of each line of abhumans, one of the heavily armoured Legionnaires shot off the manacles and broke the chains. Piles of crude clubs and massive blades lay in the APCs, and the ogryns picked them up as their chains were removed. Already the Garrowans could hear the rough gurgling as the chem-inhaler's kicked in.

"Open fire. Now," Macara stated. When no one moved he bellowed it, and Mk'Askill echoed the call. Hellguns opened fire and the abhumans began taking hits. Precious few of them fell as they began linging up and fillin the streets in front of the Garrowan positions.

"Aircraft incoming!" someone called from further back, causing a general gaze upwards. The noise from the Marauder engines drowned out the ogryns as they drew closer.

* * *

"Okay, Condor flight, bring them in nice and tight." Squadron leader Mahona spoke into his mic. His Marauder group, 12 aircraft strong, was approaching the marked frontlines he had been told to saturate. The Guardsmen below should have withdrawn far enough by now, and the archenemy forces in the leading edge would be annihilated. Mahona tweaked his controls and his Marauder started dropping slightly as he manoeuvred into an attack run. His flight followed him, and bomb doors flapped open.

"Marauder flights first, then to mop up, I want the Marauder Destroyers. Here we go Condor flight."

The large aircraft dived towards the city and the fighting below.

* * *

"Sir, they look like they're coming in very close," Mk'Askill hissed to Macara.

"They do indeed."

"They're coming right over our positions," Cairns breathed. "They're going to hit us too."

"Mk'Hellin, call the bastards off. Now," Macara pointed at his corporal.

The vox man was already desperately garbling down his handset. But it was too late. The first Marauders had dropped their bombs and were winging away. Explosions hit the ogryns first, throwing large bodies in the air and dismembering dozens of men, both human and abhuman. And the bombs came closer and closer.

Mk'Hellin screamed into the vox, and the three Marauder Destroyers pulled up before opening fire, but the corridor of explosions from the regular bombers drew closer.

"Get small! Now!" Mk'Askill screamed as the bombs hit.

"What was that?" Avre asked, looking round. Plumes of smoke, and towering clouds of debris scattered above the arched roof tops of the habs, as the distant forms of Marauder Destroyers could be picked out. "Those airstrikes were a little close."

"They looked like they were right on the Garrowans," his adjutant stated.

"Yes, I think so. Sergeant, pass the word, I want a company to drop out of the line of march and come with me," Avre spoke to one of his command squad. The NCO nodded and spoke to the vox man.

The Cadian Major turned about and started walking back up the broken roadway. "Captain Derrin is in command until I return. Keep moving for the rally point."

Macara was first back onto his feet. All around, fresh rubble piled on the older. Fires burned in new craters. Bodies lay everywhere. Crimson armoured Garrowans were spread out everywhere, unmoving, many blackened and charred. Many weren't in one place. Some screamed, some cried, a lot were silent. The airstrike had done its job well, as all along the Garrowan leading edge, members of Grenadier, 2 and Light Coy lay dead amidst the Marauder strike. No doubt the Thoran line was the same.

More men were lifting themselves from the ground, dusting down, or treating injuries and grabbing weapons.

"Stand to! Garrowans, stand to!" Macara bellowed, sword in hand, powerfield lit.

The traitor abhumans were jogging towards them now, tramping over their dead and wounded alike in an effort to get at the Imperials, seeing only enemies through their drug-induced rage.

Garrowans were firing now, trying to stop the enemy charge, but there was nothing they could do, with their formation and order broken by the blue-on-blue.

The ogryns crashed home as the Garrowans desperately rallied to fend them off.

Macara swung his sabre in a mighty ark, scything through an ogryn's throat before turning and ramming his blade hilt deep in the next's chest. Simultaneously he blasted the thing's face off with his boltgun.

Next second, he was flying through the air, chest on fire as the first ogryn he'd attack clubbed him. Macara had foolishly assumed it was dead. He raised his bolt pistol arm, only to realise it was on the ground ten feet away.

The ogryn smashed down with his club and the colonel rolled to side before leaping to his feet. He brought his sabre down on the thing's right bicep, slicing hideously easily even through its broad muscles and bones. The heavy limb flopped to the ground, along with the makeshift cudgel. Roaring in either pain or anger, it swiped at the colonel, dealing him a glancing blow to the shoulder that felt like a sledgehammer and just connected.

Three hellgun shots rocked it's meaty flank, creating crimson, wet craters in its torso. Even as it turned to face this new attack, three Garrowans moved in, rapid firing and filling it with so many las holes even its chem enhanced strength could handle. Macara nodded at the lead trooper, Mc'Dayde, before retrieving his bolt pistol.

All around, knots of men fought individual abhumans, trying to drag them down with numbers. But it was costing them hard.

The colonel saw Captain Mc'Veigh lead a charge on a group of three hooded brutes, a score of crimson men stabbing and hacking with long bayonets. Mc'Veigh cut one from collarbone to gut with his chainsword, but still the thing swung its crude falchion, severing limbs and opening bellies. The smell of blood seemed to make the creatures go even more berserk. One of the three went down to a plasma gun on full auto, limbs and torso vaporising. Mc'Veigh's victim finally fell, even as it crushed Mk'Dinnan's head between its meaty hands. Macara swore, unable to help the trooper who had already saved his life more than once.

He blasted away with his bolt pistol, expertly reloading with a new mag even as he ejected the spent clip. Another ogryn freak thumped to the ground, its face and chest a mess of broken bones and bloody tissue.

A scream made him turn to see Mc'Dayde getting bisected from neck to groin from a massive stroke of a huge billhook. It was not a clean cut, more broken in half than cut. His innards spilled onto the ground, causing the trooper who had been beside him slip and fall. Even as the man struggled to rise from the offal that had been Mc'Dayde, the killer stopped on his head and smashed it like over-ripe fruit. Even as that abhuman was brought low by volume of fire, Macara watched another pick a Garrowan up and literally snap his spine in two, throwing the corpse away like a ragdoll.

"Hold! For Garrowa! For the Blade!" Mk'Askill roared, swiping round with his chainsword and disemboweling one of the beasts.

Macara looked for Kallum, and saw the corporal standing over an injured Miskelly. An ogryn had a falchion in one hand and was forcing in down, Kallum standing with two hands gripping the huge wrist and forcing up with all his strength. Dillin had dropped his spontoon and was trying to drag Miskelly and colours out from under the ogryn's stamping feet. Now, Kallum was one of the biggest, strongest men in the regiment – indeed, Macara knew no one stronger – but even he couldn't beat the ogryn's brutality. It was a wonder the dumb brute hadn't simply brought its second hand round to crush Kallum's skull.

Macara charged the abhumn, sabre point forward and skewered the best right through. Macara received a back-hand for his efforts as the ogryn turned on him. He hit the floor once again, losing breath. His sabre was stuck in the ogryn's side, flesh sizzling. With a roar it kicked Kallum so the big man landed on Miskelly, causing the sergeant to groan in pain, and then turned to bring its own blade down on Macara.

The colonel through his arms around and felt the long haft of Dillin's weapon. Swinging it round and bracing the butt on the ground, he held the spontoon level as the abhuman literally walked face first onto it. The thing gurgle in surprise, but Macara simply stood again, twisting the wide blade and causing horrific damage than even this ogryn couldn't survive. With a loud thud in hit the ground.

"I am getting sick of being knocked down," Macara hissed. Kallum stood unsteadily as Dillin got Miskelly to his feet. The sergeant had a nasty laceration to his arm, but refused to give up the colours. He held them proud and looked for a target.

Macara shot glances around, taking in the whole situation. Behind the brawling mass, the Legion troops in full armour and gleaming steel helmets were advancing, hot-shot lasguns in their hands and already cutting down unsuspecting Garrowans. Many shots hit the towering abhumans, but they were fodder and the Legionary veterans didn't care. They had broken the Imperial line, and were about to turn it into a charnal house.

"Fall back. All Companies, fall back now," Macara said. He grabbed Mk'Hellin's vox mic from the startled corporal. "All Companies, break and fall back. We are about to be overrun. Break and head for the rally point."

Garrowans looked around, unsure of what they had heard. That was not an order they were used to. Already, Macara could see Klousour striding towards him, plasma pistol in hand.

"All units fall back. Any men who are able, make an orderly withdrawal and head for the Cathedral at three four niner alpha. Orders are to rally there if possible. B'cyver, this is an authentic transmission – get out of here and head for the warehouses. We can't hold," he finished. Retrieving his sword from the ogryn, he saw Klousour scowl at him, but turned his attention to directing Garrowans in as orderly a manner as possible. The colonel realised he had just saved his own life.

But the Garrowans were broken.

* * *

Mk'Fedan listened to the comms with amazement.

"Since when was the cathedral so important? I why is Macara trying to rally there?" he murmured to himself. He looked round at the men sitting in exhaustion. Unable to stand high command a moment longer he had to gone to rally point Beta to meet some of his own men coming in from the front.

The general had been chatting to troopers for the last fifteen minutes, talking to those he recognised, making sure he made those he didn't feel as valued and remembered as their colleagues. Despite the blood and grime and horrific forty eight hours most had endured, they grinned like young lads at his jokes, and appreciated his reassuring words.

But now he had a bad feeling in his gut. He strode over to a tired vox-man whose kit lay on the staircase the NCO had slumped down on. The rockcrete stairs weren't comfortable, but they were a seat and by damn, that man was claiming this one. Mk'Fedan lifted the mic and started adjusting the dials.

"Sir, let me," the tired man stretched his arm over to help, groaning as he moved.

"At your ease son, I can still remember how to use a long-gain vox. Here, have some water and leave me to it."

"Th..thank you, sir," the corporal took the proffered flask.

Mk'Fedan adjusted the dial again, and spoke.

"Major Mk'Rae, this is Major General Mk'Fedan, come in," he let the words hang for a moment, before repeating. Mk'Rae replied quickly.

"_Go ahead, sir._"

"I need you to grab as many vehicles as you can and force a way to the cathedral in three four niner alpha, before it gets completely cut off."

"_Sir? The warehouse sector?_" Mk'Rae's response was obviously a question.

"I'm not accustomed to explaining myself, major," Mk'Fedan said roughly. He may love his men, but he didn't brook insubordination. But he relented quickly as he realised all the men were suffering through idiot orders, and he was also not accustomed to his men being so reluctant. "Look, Merc, Macara's boys received a crypted vox even my magenta couldn't open, and then suddenly they were using that crappy workers basilica as a rally point rather than here. I doubt Daine would run off for no good reason. I want you to assist him in any way needed. Clear?"

"_Of course, General. I'll head out ASAP,_" Mk'Rae sounded less taken aback now.

"Good hunting. Mk'Fedan out."

The general passed the mic to the corporal. "What's your name son?"

"Corporal Belle, sir. I was in your battalion at Ichar IV, sir. I shared a flask with you after the main swarm was broken," the trooper seemed a little disappointed.

Mk'Fedan started – he _did_ know this man. Depsite the blood and dirt crusting his jawline and cheeks, he should have recognised him. Damn Faulin and his incompetence messing with his thoughts.

"Sorry corporal. With all that enemy filth splattered over your armour, I didn't recognise you!" he smiled as genuinely as he could. Belle smiled back, not sensing the regret and white lie in Mk'Fedan's voice. The general clapped him on the shoulder and walked across the broken square a little more, looking around. Men from nine different regiments were here, mostly Garrowan, but some Cadians and a devastated company of Elysians who'd escaped the landing fields. This square had once been a manufactorum worker's meeting area, statues of Imperial heroes and saints erected around its edges. A small chapel sat on one corner, a couple of bakeries and food markets, even a bar or two, filling up the other ground floor spaces. All were blasted and ruined. They hadn't been luxurious or fancy before, and now they were barely a shadow of that. The habbers didn't have much, and even this had been cruelly taken away. The statues had been broken down and left littering the ground. A dozen Garrowan Heavies sat on Rogal Dorn, and there some Fusiliers, their chimera left behind on the retreat, smoked lho sticks on the legs of Saint Sabbat.

The buildings here were only a few dozen metres high, to let as much natural light in as possible, and the square was wide. Mk'Fedan was glad to get some real sunlight on him, although it did little to lighten his mood.

All he could think about was Macara and his boys, and how the hell even the 5th were going to get through this one.


End file.
